by Nina Lane
The other women chuckled in agreement.
“Not to mention, get used to black and brown,” Beverly added.
Julia, who was standing behind Sharon, looked in the mirror above the other woman’s head. Compared to all four women, she looked perfect—well-dressed, her hair a shining honey-colored waterfall to her shoulders, her features artfully enhanced with subtle cosmetics. She worked hard to look like this, and she made no apologies for her belief that the right clothes, hairstyle, and make-up could increase a woman’s inner power. She saw it all the time in the wealthy women she styled—the socialites, politician’s wives, corporate CEO’s daughters, heiresses.
So who did “regular” women like Sharon and Connie go to for help bringing their interiors to the surface, like Julia had done with Polly and Kate?
Old. Tired. Passé.
Longevity is power.
Her thoughts continued working as the women were transformed with flattering haircuts and highlights, and their features accented with perfect color tones. They stared at themselves in the mirrors as if they couldn’t believe the reflections matched who they were. It was an expression Julia often saw on her clients, and one which she always enjoyed the most.
“We’ll schedule appointments on the day of the performance so everything will be fresh,” she assured them. “You can leave the dresses here, and we’ll bring them to the dress rehearsal.”
She waved away their profuse thanks, telling Isabella to get them samples of all the beauty products. She checked her tablet, adding appointments into the schedule and double-checking the Deck the Halls line-up.
“We’re going to stop by that soup and salad place on Thistle Street for lunch,” Sharon said as she got up from the dressing table. “Would you like to join us?”
She should really put the Jingle Belles in a spotlight position, either right before intermission or, even better, as the grand finale before the fireworks.
“Julia?”
She glanced up at Sharon. “Yes?”
“Would you like to join us for lunch?”
Julia blinked. “You were asking me?”
“Yes.” Sharon’s forehead furrowed, and a sudden embarrassment flashed in her expression. “I mean, I’m sure you’re really busy and all, but you’ve been so generous that we’d at least like to take you to lunch.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I… I would like that, but I have a business call in twenty minutes.”
“Too bad. Well, maybe another time.”
“Another time.” Julia watched the other women disappear behind the changing screens. A few seconds later, they started chattering and admiring their new looks all over again.
Julia returned to her office, oddly disappointed that she couldn’t join them for lunch. Not that she had anything in common with four women from regular walks of life. They’d sit at a table and talk about their husbands and children, their book clubs, the best place to buy groceries…
No, that wasn’t her kind of conversation at all. Then again, neither was the millennial talk she often heard from her assistants about the latest tech gadget and viral social media video.
She straightened her shoulders and went into her studio, where the youthful designs for her Appear line were scattered on the surface. Julia studied them, her mind shifting back to the idea of flipping her target demographic to focus on older women.
Women in their fifties, sixties, seventies who had seen and done a great deal in life. Maybe, like the Jingle Belles, some of them had lost a spouse or had children in college. Maybe they were still working or looking for a new job. Maybe they were librarians, grandmothers, personal trainers, business owners, professionals, teachers. Maybe they were seeking a change or entering a new phase of their lives.
She picked up a design of a flirty, ruffled miniskirt meant for a woman in her early twenties with an unrealistically perfect set of legs.
Her designs had always been about empowering women. Making them feel good, confident, strong.
Warren had pointed out the truth—young women had so many choices in fashion. Too many choices, in fact.
But older women? If the Jingle Belles were right, they faced racks of clothes that were either old-fashioned or too expensive. Drab, boxy, outdated.
And yet clearly those women were as active as ever with their work, families, clubs, community groups, volunteering…
They needed clothes that showed the world they wouldn’t be written off just because they were mature. Classic styles with modern touches. Vibrant colors, fabrics, textures…
Julia texted Marco and told him to cancel her scheduled call. She turned her sketchpad to a fresh page. A feeling rose that she couldn’t name, an instinct telling her when an idea was good.
She picked up a sharp pencil and set to work, envisioning classic looks whose conservative edge was softened by a sense of adventure and brightness. Fitted blazers, blouses in soft, vivid reds and greens. Silk, jacquard, linen, cashmere. Skirts of a flattering length, shirts with sleeves that showed hints of skin without being overly revealing. Pants made of a high-quality jersey fabric and tailored to fit, therefore eliminating the need for horrible “slimming” underclothes. Nothing baggy, high-waisted, or too long. Nothing frumpy.
By the time she was finished for the day, she’d filled her sketchbook and started to work out fabrics for prototypes. She uploaded her preliminary designs to her online portfolio and contacted a select few colleagues for their opinions.
A clothing line for older women. What could she call it? Terms for women over fifty were so unappealing. Matron. Spinster. Dowager. Or just… old woman.
She left her studios and drove downtown, where the lighting and stage technicians were doing a run-through on the Deck the Halls stage. Ocean Avenue was a nonstop bustle of shoppers and families trying to get in a last-minute visit with Santa.
“Aunt Julia.”
She turned, her world brightening as she saw Hailey coming toward her—a vision of Christmas cheer in a red coat and plaid scarf. She put down her clipboard and hurried to meet her niece.
“I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend.”
“I was able to leave early.” Hailey hugged her tightly. “Dad said you’d probably be here, so I wanted to see if you needed any help.”
“Not until the final show.” Julia eyed her niece, noticing the faint worry in the girl’s brown eyes that were so much like her father’s. “Hey, let’s go get a coffee or hot cocoa. My treat.”
“Don’t you need to work?”
“They’ll be fine without me.” She waved a dismissive hand toward the stage. “In fact, they’ll probably enjoy being without me for an hour or so.”
A few minutes later, they were sitting at a window table at Wild Child, with two cappuccinos and a plate of Declairs. After chit-chat about Hailey’s work and her thoughts about graduate school, Julia sensed her niece shifting toward confidentiality.
Though it had taken some time for Hailey to trust her enough to confide in her, over the years Julia had learned to recognize the signs of Hailey’s need to talk about something specific. Julia had never wanted or tried to take her sister’s place as Hailey’s mother, but she had become the girl’s main confidante in a family full of boys. It was a role she both cherished and did not take lightly.
“Is everything all right?” she asked. “Is that break-up still bothering you?”
Hailey shook her head, lifting her cup to her lips. “Have you noticed anything going on with Dad?”
A humorless laugh bubbled in Julia’s throat. Had she not noticed Warren in recent days? He’d infiltrated every area of her thoughts.
“Like what?” she asked casually.
“Well, when I went down for breakfast this morning, he was sitting at the kitchen table, kind of… I don’t know. Slumped. I asked him what was wrong, and he got up really fast, like he didn’t want me to see him like that. Then he said nothing was wrong, he was going out for a run and would be back later.”
Unease pricked at Julia. “He might be a little discombobulated about retirement. He’s been acting like it’s no big deal, but of course it is. Maybe he didn’t want you to see him upset.”
“Maybe.” Hailey didn’t look convinced. “Adam told me Dad is doing a lot more climbing and bouldering, but do you think that’s good for him?”
“He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t,” Julia said. “Your father has never been reckless.”
“Here you go.” Polly swooped over to deposit a plate of Declairs on the table. “Hailey, are you coming with us to the parade? We’re leaving around four.”
“Sure, I’ll meet you over at Luke’s.”
Polly turned to Julia. “What about you, sunshine?”
“Hah. I would rain on the silly parade.”
Polly cracked a grin and headed over to another table. Hailey ate a Declair and shook her head, as if ridding herself of worrisome thoughts.
“Well, I just wanted to ask,” she said. “I know I don’t live all that far away, but I kind of hate leaving Dad alone, you know?”
“Dearest, all of your brothers are at his beck and call, much as they would like to believe otherwise. He just needs to snap his fingers and they’ll come running.”
“I know, but I still worry about him.” Hailey shrugged, studying the design on the mosaic tabletop. “Evan thinks all of Dad’s modeling has been a way of isolating himself. I want him to retire, but not if he’s going to spend all his time holed up in his workshop.”
“I’m sure he has all sorts of grandiose plans,” Julia said. “And he would be dismayed to know that you were worrying about him.”
“I’ll try not to.” Hailey smiled and reached for her coat. “I’m so glad he has you, Aunt Julia. Not just to keep an eye on him, but as a friend.”
After they’d said goodbye, Julia watched her niece leave the café. Hailey still had a guarded way of moving through the world, as if she had an invisible shield in front of her.
I’m so glad he has you.
It had been an offhanded statement, but one that settled in Julia’s heart like a bird in a nest. Maybe that meant the idea of her and Warren as an actual couple wouldn’t be a difficult transition in Hailey’s mind.
Julia slid into her coat and stood. Hope and fear warred inside her. She’d lived long enough to know that fear seemed stronger. Sharp claws and gnashing teeth.
But hope, green leaves and star-sprinkled skies, was deceptively gentle. And it always stood an excellent chance of winning the battle.
Chapter
TWELVE
“You’re in better shape and better health than most men half your age.” The doctor removed his stethoscope and made a note on Warren’s chart. “Great heart, blood pressure, lungs. We’ll have your bloodwork by tomorrow. All the training you’re doing has clearly served you well.”
“What about the dizziness?” Warren asked.
Dr. Anderson studied his chart, a frown creasing his forehead. “Could be nutrition related or just because you’ve taken your training to a whole other level. Possibly a vitamin deficiency. I’ll know more when I get your blood results. If everything is normal, I’ll refer you to an ENT. Otherwise keep doing what you’re doing, and send me a selfie when you’re at the top of the Matterhorn.”
Warren thanked him, dressed, and left the office—glad about the good report but still uneasy about his sudden attacks of vertigo. The Matterhorn route required climbing vertical rock faces, some with drops that led hundreds of feet to the glaciers below. Narrow ridge lines, constant exposure, an unstable, difficult descent. A climber had to be as sharp and focused as he or she had ever been in life. Warren had been working to his limits for a year in preparation for the challenge. Mentally, emotionally, physically—he was ready.
He couldn’t let a little dizziness dent his confidence. Dr. Anderson was right. Probably dehydration or a nutrition issue. He’d pay more attention to what he was eating and drinking.
He got into his car and used his tablet to send an email to Hans at Alpine Climbs, attaching a copy of the completed health form listing no medications or pre-existing conditions. Hans’s reply came a few seconds later:
Thanks—we’ll know before Xmas if we are green-lighted.
Reminding himself that the uncertainty of climbing was one of its appeals, Warren drove home and parked in the garage.
He went into his office, his gaze falling on his model workshop, which he hadn’t used in months. The long table was still covered with parts of an RAF fighter plane he hadn’t finished. He hadn’t had much of an urge to work on the models lately, not with his focus on the Matterhorn and retirement. He didn’t miss it much either. He liked putting models together, but he liked being out in the world more.
He liked the challenge of Julia more.
He passed the workshop and stopped at the built-in shelves loaded with books. He scrutinized the titles—everything from history books to novels. On the bottom shelf sat a row of paperbacks. He pulled one out—a worn yellow-edged children’s book. Little House on the Prairie.
He flipped the pages and took a folded sheet of paper out from between them. After sitting in a leather chair, he unfolded the paper. His heart hammered. How many years ago had he last read this letter? Twenty-eight?
Dear Warren,
I hope this reaches you. I’m writing from London, a little flat in Battersea. I’ve been here about three weeks and am looking for a job or maybe to enroll in art classes.
I want to apologize for what I said and did. Kissing you was a terrible thing to do. I don’t usually act that way, though I hope you know that. You were so nice. There were things you did that you didn’t have to do, and things you could have done that you didn’t.
Not to be weird, but I’ve been thinking about you a lot. The kind of man you are, like one who wouldn’t ditch me because you were too cowardly to stand up to your father. Especially if you knew I was pregnant. Maybe it’s a good thing Sam bailed out on me because I don’t think we would’ve had a very good marriage if he could do that.
Anyway, I guess I just wanted to say I’m sorry. And to thank you too because you’ve always reminded me that men who are kind of perfect are really out there. Maybe one day I’ll find one.
Sincerely,
Julia Bennett
Kind of perfect.
Even now, the phrase twisted through him like a corkscrew. She’d thought he’d been nice.
That night had been the first break, the start of the domino effect that apparently still hadn’t ended.
How was it that a few hours could still discolor a person’s life thirty years later? When were people allowed to stop feeling guilty and to admit that making mistakes was part of being human? Was there one person in the history of time who hadn’t felt or thought something wrong?
Julia’s quest for perfection meant that she couldn’t forgive herself. But if she knew he hadn’t been “kind of perfect”—far from it—she might find a way to allow herself a mistake.
He folded the letter and put it in the interior pocket of his suit jacket before heading back to his car. He drove to Julia’s studios, only to be informed by Marco that she’d gone home early. Which, unbeknownst to anyone else, likely meant that she was trying to stave off a migraine.
His insides clenched as he headed to her house. She’d never had very bad migraines until the onset of menopause, when they’d started getting increasingly severe. Despite his insistence that she see several different specialists, none had come up with a medication that worked.
He pulled into her driveway and approached the front door. He knocked instead of ringing the bell. The loud noise of the bell exacerbated her headaches.
No response. The faint sound of music came from inside. She’d never listen to music if she had a headache. Warren knocked again and turned the knob. The door opened.
He stepped inside, breathing in the scent of baking—cinnamon and sugar. Music filled the air—the dynamic, thumping beat of Cher’s �
�If I Could Turn Back Time” accompanied by the singer’s rich voice…
Wait a second. That wasn’t Cher. That was—
Warren stopped in the kitchen doorway. A cake sat on the counter alongside a bowl of white frosting. And clad in yoga pants, a T-shirt, and a flour-covered apron, her hair pulled into a messy ponytail, Julia danced around the kitchen, holding a spatula like a microphone and belting out the lyrics about regrets and lost love as if she were singing to a stadium full of people.
And holy shit… she could sing.
Warren couldn’t take his eyes off her. She wiggled her hips, flipped her hair, strutted in circles, and sang with everything she possessed. Her voice was strong, rich, rising and falling in time with the melody like a ship rolling over a sea.
She grabbed a spatula and loaded it with white frosting, then slapped it onto a cake. Still singing, she whirled around. Her gaze collided with his. She stopped, her eyes widening with shock and her skin flushed.
“What… what are you doing here?” she asked breathlessly.
“You didn’t hear me knock, so I came in. Sorry to interrupt.”
She suddenly seemed like a different woman than the one he’d known for so many years. How the hell had he never known she could sing like… like that?
Fear lanced through him, sharp and unexpected. His hands flexed and unflexed. He had a vague memory of Rebecca telling him Julia could sing, but it hadn’t registered much and he’d never heard her. If he hadn’t even known Julia could sing like a dream, what else didn’t he know about her? What was she hiding? What had she not told him?
As if reading his thoughts, Julia’s flush deepened. She moved toward the music player to hit the stop button. Warren was across the room before she could reach it, grabbing her around the waist. She startled. The song changed to Modern English’s “Melt with You.”
Warren pulled her against him and spun her around, grabbing her right hand with his left. He guided her into a slow dance, losing himself in her blue eyes and the lingering echo of her voice. He led her on several turns around the kitchen and was rewarded by her spontaneous laugh. She came to a halt near the sink, the smile still curving her mouth.
