Undressed

by Heather MacAllister

  After she was trussed like an extra in a Gone with the Wind remake, an older woman carried the dress in. “Monica Teague?” Rather than explain, which would require breathing, Gina nodded. “You’re one busy lady.”

  “Tell me about it,” Gina mumbled, and stepped into the dress.

  Once the thousand or so tiny covered buttons were in their loops, she stood on the pedestal and faced the pathetic image of herself wearing the wedding dress of the woman who was going to marry the man Gina loved.

  THE MAN GINA LOVED was in the corresponding fitting room on the other side of the wall.

  “Monica Teague?” he heard. “You’re one busy lady.”

  So Monica had really, actually kept today’s appointment. Ford exhaled and smiled. He couldn’t make out the mumbled response, but an image of Gina flashed in his mind, not surprising since in past weeks, he’d seen Gina more than Monica.

  But that was going to change. He and Monica needed to reconnect. Or disconnect. Yes, he loved her e-mails and texts, but when he spoke to her on the phone, she was always abrupt or in the middle of something or couldn’t talk. He knew she composed the e-mails and texts when she had a chunk of time, probably sitting in meetings. That was the Monica he loved and the Monica he wanted to marry. So, since she needed time to be that Monica, he was giving her that time. And he wasn’t giving her a chance to refuse.

  “Step into the dress and I’ll fasten you.”

  There were rustling sounds. “There are a lot of buttons. But worth it. Ooooh, you look so beautiful!”

  Ford motioned to the two teenagers sitting in the dressing room with him. “Okay, she’s in there,” he whispered. “I’m leaving to get things set up. You two wait here until she’s done and then hurry over to the salon before she gets away.”

  Ford’s coconspirators were Mark’s seventeen-year-old son and his friend Brian. They nodded.

  “You can’t let her get away—if she gets in her car, it’s all over,” Ford emphasized.

  “Got it,” one said.

  Ford held a finger to his lips. When he’d been fitted with his tux, he remembered hearing the conversations from the women’s dressing room in the bridal salon and figured he’d put the lack of soundproofing to good use. He’d explained his plan to a sympathetic salesclerk named J.C., who checked to see if Monica was scheduled for the fitting room on the other side, and then let the three of them camp out in here.

  He went over the sequence of events with the boys once more. “Remember, hand her the calla lily from me, issue the invitation and then escort her to the car. Do not take no for an answer. Do not let her use her cell phone. She will argue, she will complain, she might be mad. No…she will be mad. Count on that. She will threaten. Do not speak to her. Do not stop driving until you reach the marina. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” they whispered, and grinned at each other. “This is so cool!” Mark’s son said aloud.

  “Okay.” Ford stood. “Call me if the plan goes south.”

  3

  “THIS IS SO COOL!” Gina heard a young male voice say.

  She smiled at the woman pinning the seams. “They must be renting tuxes for their prom. I wonder what they think is cool?”

  “The boys like the jackets with the tails sometimes.” She finished the pinning and eyed the bodice. “How does it feel under the arms?” Hitching at the strapless top, she frowned. “It looks like it cuts into the skin a little bit.”

  So Gina had been hitting the bagels a little too hard. Monica hadn’t. “It’s fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” Gina said firmly.

  “Okay, let’s do the hem. Did you bring your wedding shoes?”

  Gina looked at the woman blankly. No, she had not brought Monica’s wedding shoes. Monica didn’t have wedding shoes, Gina suspected. Monica certainly didn’t have the right wedding underwear. “No,” she said, but the tailor was already tsking.

  “Do you know what height heel you plan to wear?”

  “Um…a comfortable height?”

  The woman glanced at the leather flip-flops Gina had worn with her capris. “I have some one-inch boards that you can stand on. We’ll stack as many as you think we need and pin the hem that way.”

  “Sounds like a plan!” Gina gave her an overly enthusiastic smile and dug out her phone as soon as the woman left the room.

  The call went immediately to Monica’s voice mail, which meant she hadn’t turned it back on. Gina left a message telling her if she didn’t hear back, she was going for two-inch heels.

  She should not be here making these decisions for Monica. This was her wedding dress. Didn’t she care?

  If Gina were marrying Ford, she’d want everything to be perfect. She certainly wouldn’t send her assistant to stand in for her as though it was just another chore.

  But Gina wasn’t marrying Ford. She inhaled as deeply as she could. Then she blew out her breath. Time to detach. She’d been miserable not talking to him the past two weeks and she had to get over it. What she felt was infatuation, not love. It couldn’t be love unless the other person loved you back.

  And the other person would never love you back if all you ever did was make the wrong woman look like the right woman.

  Gina stared at herself. If Monica wanted to marry Ford, then she needed to act like it. And if Ford wanted to marry Monica, then he needed to deal directly with Monica, not with Gina pretending to be Monica.

  She was done.

  Gina couldn’t stand being in this poufy meringue of a dress another second. She just couldn’t. She jumped off the pedestal, slipped on the flip-flops the tailor had dismissed and billowed after the woman. If Monica needed her dress hemmed, then she was going to have to find a tailor to do it. Or Gina would. But Gina would rather phone a hundred tailors than wear this dress a second longer.

  Mirrors mocked her as she stormed through the dressing area and emerged into the main salon. Where was the woman she’d been working with? Or somebody who could help her get out of this stupid dress. She looked around uncertainly.

  A breathless young man entered the salon. “Monica Teague?”

  Startled, Gina looked his way and saw that he carried a single calla lily. It could only have come from Ford.

  She felt tears. Stupid tears. Pointless tears.

  “MonicaTeague?” He looked around the salon, saw her staring at him and took a tentative step toward her. “Monica Teague?”

  Her job was to be Monica when Monica couldn’t be Monica. Gina walked toward him. “Is that from Ford?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He handed the calla lily to her. “He invites you to join him for dinner. I’m here to escort you.”

  Gina nearly crushed the stem of the flower. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  The boy took her arm and urged her toward the door. “No, really,” Gina insisted. “Please tell Ford that Monica has other plans this evening.”

  “He said that you would refuse.”

  That was just sad. The boy still held her arm and they’d reached the door. “You don’t understand. I’m not going with you.”

  “Mr. O’Banion said that we weren’t to take no for an answer.” And he pulled her through the salon door.

  “Hey! Wait! Are you nuts? I’m still wearing the wedding dress!”

  “Sorry, but we have our orders.”

  Orders?

  He pulled her toward a Lincoln Continental parked in front of the shop. Another boy sat in the driver’s seat.

  “Stop it!” Gina demanded. “You’re going to damage the dress.”

  “Then stop struggling and get into the car, ma’am.”

  “No!”

  The driver got out and came to join the other boy. Gina became truly alarmed. She braced her feet and splayed her arms across the car as both boys pushed.

  In the end, the stupid corset, the hoops and about a hundred yards of tulle did her in. She sprawled face-first into the backseat, the hoops of the dress scraping against the ceiling. She tried s
creaming for help, but had left it too late and couldn’t get a good breath, anyway.

  They’d lulled her with the calla lily. Gina righted herself and batted the dress into submission as the car took off. The skirt rose until she could barely see over the top. She squashed it and tried to contain it between her knees as it mounded on either side of her.

  Her heart pounded hard against the boning of the corset.

  “Am I being kidnapped?” Actually, Gina supposed it was Monica who was being kidnapped.

  “No. You’re being escorted.”

  “I don’t want to be escorted.”

  “Mr. O’Banion said you wouldn’t cooperate and we weren’t to listen to you.”

  “Well, listen to this—I’m not Monica Teague. You’ve kidnapped the wrong bride, Sherlock.”

  They laughed. “That’s pretty good.”

  “And it’s pretty true. Hand over your cell phone and I’ll call Ford and straighten this out.”

  They both shook their heads. “He said not to let you use your phone.”

  “I don’t have my phone. I want to use your phone.”

  “No, he—”

  “Call him. Call him! Call him right this minute!” Sometimes people responded to the voice of authority.

  “Mr. O’Banion said you’d be mad.”

  And sometimes not. “Mr. O’Banion has no idea.” Gina sank back into the leather seat and tried to catch her breath. Okay, she probably wasn’t being kidnapped. This was Ford’s way of not giving Monica a chance to cancel. She had to admire his take-charge plan, but he needed to work on the execution.

  “Where are we going?” she asked, trying another tack.

  “Uh…” They glanced at each other.

  “I think it’s supposed to be a surprise,” one said.

  “But you’ll love it,” added the driver.

  “How far away is the surprise?”

  “Probably about an hour and twenty minutes.”

  Over an hour away from her clothes, her purse and her phone? And she was wearing a pinned-up wedding gown. Not even her own. “Guys—get real. I’m in a wedding gown! I’m hardly dressed for dinner in a restaurant.”

  “We’re not taking you to a restaurant—” The driver poked the boy who’d given her the flower.

  “You’ll like where you’re going,” he said. “It’s awesome. I’ve, uh, spent some time there.”

  “Could we at least go back so I can get my purse? If I promise not to run away?”

  “No,” they chorused. “And we’re not supposed to be talking to you, anyway.”

  “This is ridiculous! Will you just call Ford? You don’t even have to let me talk to him. I’ll yell from the backseat.”

  Silence.

  “What’s he paying you?” she asked.

  “He’s not paying us,” one said. “He’s helping with our Science Fair booth.”

  “Quit talking to her!” said the other.

  Gina gave up. “Okay. You win. But when Ford sees me and gets mad, remember that I told you that I’m not Monica Teague.”

  What a waste of a perfectly good Saturday.

  Gina half expected the salon to call the police. How could a woman in full bridal regalia be taken out the front door and, in full view of the main salon, be forced into an admittedly plush Lincoln without anyone noticing?

  And yet, over an hour of uneventful travel later, they were driving toward the Lakeway Marina.

  Ford must have wanted to take Monica sailing. Even if she were Monica, her wedding dress would have put a crimp in that plan. Ford was lucky she wasn’t Monica. Monica would never forgive him.

  The boys parked in front of a covered slip with a fancy boat named the Sarah June parked—moored?—in it.

  The driver made a call. “Package delivery.”

  Gina rolled her eyes.

  They got out of the car and opened both sides of the back. “Uh.” Then both doors slammed shut again.

  Gina snickered.

  One door opened. “If you’ll step this way, ma’am.”

  And she was going to get out of the car how? As soon as she relaxed her knees, the dress popped up. Gina tried to maneuver her way across the seat and got stabbed by a pin for her effort. “I could use some help.”

  They looked at each other.

  “It’s not a trick! I am resigned to my fate, if you will. So help me out of the car and let’s get this over with.”

  The dress was so big, Gina couldn’t see her feet and had to step blindly onto the concrete walkway. There was a sad little ripping sound as some beading caught in the door, but, levering herself with the boys’ help, she made it out okay. She maybe only flashed them twice.

  They each held on to one of her arms. “I’m not going to run.” She yanked her arms away. “See?” She walked toward the little gangway, dress billowing in the wind. Actually, it didn’t need wind to billow. “This is me not running.”

  When she reached the part where she was going to have to step onto some slick-looking fiberglass, she said, “I can’t see my feet. If I slip and fall in, do not hesitate. Jump in after me. I can’t swim in this.”

  “Wait just a sec.” The boy who’d driven clambered on board and held out his hands.

  Gina took one and propped herself on the other boy’s shoulder. “This is what they call a leap of faith.” She stepped as far as she could, having no idea where her foot would land.

  The boning dug into her and the boy had to really pull, but Gina got aboard without falling in and without losing her flip-flops.

  She was perched on the aft sundeck and she assumed Ford was in the pilothouse in the front.

  The boy gestured. “See the door down those steps?”

  “That tiny little thing?”

  “Uh, yeah. It goes to the living area belowdecks. You should probably wait in there.”

  How was she supposed to get herself and this monstrosity of a dress through the door?

  Gina squashed her dress and gingerly made her way down the steps, ignoring little clicking noises that sounded like beads falling on fiberglass. She didn’t want to know. Pulling open the door, she found more steps.

  Gina was trying to figure out whether to try climbing down frontward or backward when the yacht began moving. She heard shouting and felt a bump that sent her tumbling down a step. She grabbed at the railing and stopped herself from falling, but not from stepping on the dress and tearing it at the waist. Beads scattered.

  Monica was going to flip out.

  Gina hitched up as much fabric as she could gather and descended sideways into a surprisingly spacious area. A vase of calla lilies greeted her and Gina sighed. Calla lilies were regally beautiful and elegant, but she was a yellow-rose gal herself. However, Ford had bought those for Monica, not for her.

  Gina walked into a living area with a larger TV than she owned, and a kitchen with real granite countertops. Two shiny wooden tables were parked in front of a banquette and beyond that, she guessed she’d find the sleeping quarters.

  The first door she opened was the master suite and she looked no further. It had a queen-size bed with her name on it, the only thing large enough to support both her and the dress. As for the bathroom—forget it. Just forget it.

  In fact, she was ready to forget all of this. Ford’s lovely romantic getaway was ruined. The dress was ruined. To be honest, the engagement was ruined. Gina suspected her job would be collateral damage.

  She sat on the bed and fell backward so the corset would stop digging into her stomach. The dress popped up like her own personal igloo. Anyone could see her underwear.

  She did not care.

  WHEN MONICA DIDN’T COME to find him in the pilothouse, Ford knew she was angry.

  When half an hour floated by, he knew she was furious. Ford didn’t feel experienced enough to abandon the controls without anchoring the boat, so he kept going. He was headed directly toward one of the dead-cell zones Mark had told him about. It was still about a half hour away, especially at
the slow speed at which Ford felt most comfortable, but he didn’t want to leave Monica alone any longer. He’d probably be taking her back, anyway. He’d better stop right now.

  As he dropped anchor, he imagined Gina’s reaction. He could hear her saying, “Way to go!” In fact, why didn’t he just call her right now and hear her say, “Way to go!” and then tell him how he should approach Monica?

  Gina didn’t pick up.

  Disappointed, Ford went below to face Monica. When he didn’t find her in the salon, he realized she might be in the bed, waiting for him.

  Of course she was! He was an idiot. Ford jogged to the master suite, only to be puzzled by what looked like a white pup tent with a pair of bare legs hanging over the side of the bed.

  “Monica?”

  Two arms smashed down the white tent and a torso rose stiffly to an upright position.

  “Gina!”

  “The man who can’t hire competent thugs, I presume?”

  Ford stared at her, vaguely registering that she was angry. He was stunned and not because she was here and Monica wasn’t, but because he was glad she was here and Monica wasn’t.

  He shouldn’t feel that way, but there was no doubt that he did.

  “Gina.” Instantly, he was aware of a shuffling in his memory as his synapses rearranged the past few weeks with a different focus. Talking with Gina, conspiring with Gina, eating dinner with Gina, laughing with Gina.

  He gazed at her, taking in her bare shoulders and creamy skin, the plump curves above the neckline and the fascinating way they moved, caused by her quick, angry breathing. With her bare feet, she looked like a naughty princess in the billowy white dress.

  The billowy white wedding dress.

  This was not going to end well.

  4

  “STOP STARING and get me out of this dress!” Gina hopped off the bed and turned around. “You aren’t even supposed to see it before the wedding!”

  Ford looked at a long row of buttons and loops. “I…”

  Gina pushed her hair out of the way, revealing her neck. “Just start at the top and keep going. I can hardly breathe and I can’t get out of this thing by myself!”