THE NEXT DAY I woke up in my childhood white eyelet canopy bed with a bad case of regression \re-gres-sion\ n (c1600) 1: reverting to previous behavior patterns 2: a return to a less complex or less perfect state of being 3: waking up out of breath after dreaming I had missed my calculus test because I was too busy standing in the main school hallway. Naked. And let me just say, my family does a lot of things, but we don’t do naked.
I repeated over and over again that I was no longer sixteen and had never ever been caught in any hallway, at least naked. But that didn’t assuage the fear that I was slowly spiraling back into Little Carlisle Cushing of Willow Creek, Texas, daughter of the outrageously fabulous Ridgely Wainwright.
During the previous few days, I had spent hours working on my mother’s case, answering e-mail from the office back in Boston, and working with Phillip on the phone providing detailed instructions as to how he could help Morton further with his own divorce. Becky Mumps had proven the perfect choice, providing all the dirt Morton needed to prove his wife was cheating on him. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was back in Boston with Phillip holding my hand, laughing together as we made dinner and discussed our latest cases.
Still groggy with sleep, I rolled over and picked up the phone, dialing Phillip’s number at the office, needing to hear his voice.
It was early, but he was already at his desk.
“Hey,” I said when he picked up.
“Hey?”
“Sorry, it’s a Texas thing. Good morning. How are you?”
I heard the familiar sound of his chair creaking as he leaned back. “I’m good now that you’ve called.”
Smiling, I curled down into all that white eyelet. “Do you ever wonder if you’re on the right track in your life?”
He hesitated. “Where did that come from?”
“I don’t know. Just wondering if I’m doing the right things. Making the right decisions.”
“Carlisle, are you all right?”
I could hear the concern in his voice and suddenly I felt myself ease completely, remembering why I wanted to marry him. I drew a deep breath then exhaled slowly. “I am now,” I answered truthfully.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. I just had a bad dream.”
“If you were here, I could have held you until you felt better.”
“That would have been nice,” I murmured, imagining the feel of his arms wrapped around me, holding me through the night whenever I needed to feel that I wasn’t alone. He might wake up in the morning with a sore arm, but he never once pulled away.
“If you’re sure, then I’m glad,” he said. “Tell me, are there any new developments with your mother’s divorce?”
I would have loved to talk to him about my mother’s case, but he still didn’t know she had any money. Which made it a little on the difficult side to discuss.
“No, nothing new.” Other than that Jack was trying to take my mother to the cleaners.
“What’s all that noise?” Phillip asked.
I became aware of banging coming from outside, obviously being amplified over the phone.
“I’m not sure. And as much as I hate to go, I better. I have tons to do today.”
“Okay. We’ll talk later, then?”
“Absolutely. And Phillip?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”
There was a slight pause, a comfortable pause. “We make a good team, Carlisle.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I hung up then rolled out of bed, the dreams of the night before dissipated. It didn’t take me long to get ready then make my way downstairs.
“Coffee?” I said, just as Lupe extended a perfectly made cup in my direction. “Bless you.”
“You welcome.”
Lupe went about her work in the kitchen.
“Who’s making all the noise?” I asked.
“Cinco.”
I glanced toward the window. “What’s he doing?”
“He making bike-cleaning business. He finding Weendex, rags, bucket to take around neighborhood and clean bikes.” She looked impressed. “He make people pay feety cents for clean bike.”
“Who’s going to pay a ten-year-old to clean their bike?”
Lupe scowled at me. “Bah. You have no faith. People good. People pay to be nice to boy.”
For the record, it hadn’t gone unnoticed by me that Lupe had developed a soft spot in her cagey and callous heart for my young nephew.
“I hope you’re right,” I added, pouring myself some more coffee, then went back upstairs and got back to work.
On the debutante ball front, I had hired the caterer, planned the menu, found an event planner who would decorate Symphony Hall for cost and a mention in the ball brochure. I could check off teaching the waltz (though practice the waltz was still there). I ran a line through “Find Escorts.”
My ball to-do list was getting chiseled away.
Next priority was getting Morgan a new dress. Janice had suggested the three of us go together to Michel’s House of Brides on Pine Avenue, a quaint white clapboard shop that had once been a home. The front yard was perfectly kept, and the house had royal-blue window boxes filled with red geraniums that matched the royal-blue window awnings and the front door. The shop catered to brides, bridesmaids, debutantes, mothers of the bride, and any other sort of woman who needed a formal gown.
Morgan didn’t look happy when we pulled up, and Janice’s smile was forced as we entered and went through rack upon rack of long white dresses. A saleswoman tried to help, but had been around enough brides- and debutantes-to-be and quickly left us alone.
For every form-fitting gown Morgan loved, Janice found a current-millennium-challenged monstrosity. I braved a suggestion or two, but decided I preferred my status as cool aunt and tolerable sister-in-law to what I quickly realized was devolving into my becoming a pariah to both parties. I’d let them slug it out between themselves.
I had just planted myself in a chair and had picked up a copy of Insights magazine (it was that or Modern Bride, which I really wasn’t in the mood for) when the velvet curtains leading to the back room parted and a tall stack of gift boxes appeared, being carried by someone I couldn’t see.
The boxes teetered, and I leaped forward to help.
“Thanks for the save.”
It was Ruth.
“Miss Cushing!” The girl dropped the load on the floor. “What are you doing here?”
Ruth stood stock-still, her practical clothes dusty and wrinkled. Her mouth opened and closed but she didn’t utter another word.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“With me?” She made a big exaggerated snort. “No way. I’m great. I was… just leaving. See ya!”
Sure enough she bolted, leaving the boxes in a tumble at my feet. But she didn’t depart through the front door. She disappeared into the back.
Curious, I followed and found her pacing in the storage room where it looked as if she had been cleaning.
“Ruth, do you work here?”
The sensible girl whom Janice admired stopped pacing, and I could see the gears churning in her brain. After a second she nodded authoritatively.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do work here. I found myself with some free time and knew that a job would be just the thing to punch up my college applications.”
One, at this late date I suspected she had already gotten into college. And two, even if for some reason she hadn’t, I doubted a cleaning girl at a dress shop would do much punching.
“Ruth, if you need someone to talk to—”
“Miss Cushing, I’m fine. Now, I’ve got to get back to work.”
In quick order she returned to the showroom and cleared up the boxes, then put away the broom and cleaning supplies. But when she was done, she took her punch card and checked out. “I’m starved,” she exclaimed and rushed from the store.
I was given no time to digest what had just happened before the bell over the entrance rang again and in walked Betty with her mother.
“Carlisle,” Merrily exclaimed, wearing some sort of blue tent dress, her swollen feet shoved into blue patent leather shoes. “How are you, darlin’? You look good, you do. I’m here with Betty. She made me come, though I told her I was making the perfect dress.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, not that Merrily gave me a chance.
“But I gave in and here we are,” she added. “If she can find something here that will make her happy”—she shrugged—“well then, what am I going to do?”
I ended up following them back to the fitting room where the saleslady brought several gowns for Betty to try on.
Both Betty and Morgan tried on gown after gown, Morgan ruling each one out for herself, Merrily ruling them out for Betty.
Clearly excited, Betty emerged from the fitting room in yet another gown, but Merrily’s brow creased. “Good Lord, child, what are you thinking? I will not have a daughter of mine dressed like a… floozy.”
Just so you know, the dress Betty wore was a puff of taffeta and lace that would be hard-pressed to make anyone look like a floozy, or even desirable.
Betty looked dejected. “But Mama—”
“No buts, missy. I will not let you fall into the trap of being like all these girls without an ounce of decorum. Paris what’s-her-name and that Jessica Simpson. It’s a disgrace, I tell you. A disgrace that those little girls are allowed to parade around like nobody’s business. And the Simpson girl a daughter of a preacher.”
“Mama—”
“Don’t you dare talk back to me, young lady. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, pretty is as pretty does. You are a daughter of a decent, God-fearing family and you will conduct yourself as a child with high moral values. Now get out of that dress, it’s time to go home. I’ll wait for you in the car.”
Janice, seeming confused by the interaction, watched the other mother depart, then she turned away and sorted through the racks with renewed purpose. Betty kept looking wistfully at herself in the mirror, the long lace sleeves and high lace bodice giving way to a taffeta skirt so full I suspected she had hoops and crinolines underneath.
“Here,” Janice said to her daughter with determination. “Try this one on.”
Morgan looked on the verge of mutiny but did as she was told.
The bell at the front of the store rang again, followed by a second of silence.
“Hello. Am I supposed to wait on myself?”
India.
She strolled into the back area wearing a neon ruffled blouse, tight designer jeans, high-heeled platform shoes, and a Gucci bag. Morgan came out of the fitting room, her face set in grim lines, though I wasn’t sure if it was about the dress or the arrival of India. Betty looked ecstatic about the new arrival.
“Hi, India!” she said, beaming.
“What is this, a party?” India asked, ignoring Betty and giving Morgan the once-over. “Tell me you’re not planning to wear that dress.”
“India,” I stated.
“Well, excuse me,” Morgan said, holding her arms out, displaying the gown. “She’s right. This dress is hideous.”
India smirked, then walked over and started looking through the gowns.
“I thought you already had a dress,” I said to her.
“Of course. My dad took me to New York to get my dress. At Saks Fifth Avenue. I will totally rock. I’m here because I’m meeting my mom to find her a dress.”
“Really?” we all asked.
“Yes,” she snapped, then turned to the racks. She flipped through the gowns, her hot-pink nails glittering in the overhead lights as she pulled out a silk and lace cap-sleeved dress that was nice though certainly not a stunner. “Here, Morgan,” she said, “this will look great on you.”
But Morgan had found a dress on her own. “Oh, my gosh!” She whipped out a gown. “This is the one!”
She raced into the fitting room and returned seconds later. “It’s perfect! I love it!”
“Gosh, Morgan,” Betty said. “It’s amazing.”
Morgan stood on the small dais in front of a full-length mirror in a truly stunning gown. I’m not that big into fashion, but I’d say it was a cross between Oscar de la Renta and a bit of Vera Wang, and was surprisingly demure. The sleeves were long, the neck high, with a fitted bodice in white silk satin that flowed into a long sweeping satin skirt. Somehow the gown managed to make Morgan look both young and sophisticated, sexy even, without showing much skin.
Morgan swept from side to side, gazing at her reflection. I had a sense that my niece was startled by what she saw, not sure how to absorb this new Morgan.
Janice pressed her hand to her mouth. “Oh, baby,” she breathed. “It is perfect.”
The mother and daughter who before had hardly been on speaking terms actually smiled at each other. Though barely. A step in the right direction.
India’s cell phone rang, playing a song that sounded suspiciously sentimental. When she glanced at the readout, her eyes went wide.
“Mom?” the girl sort of squeaked. “Where are you?”
Her face glowed. She was breathless and excited as she listened to whatever her mother said.
We all watched, like watching a play, until India’s smile started to fade and I would swear her eyes glistened with tears. “But you promised,” she said, turning her back to us. “We were going to find you a dress today.”
Janice’s brow creased. I felt a strange lump in my throat. Morgan looked on with concern.
“All right. I understand. But you promised you’ll be at the ball, right?”
Still more listening, before India nodded. “Okay, that’s good.”
As soon as she flipped her phone shut, we whirled around, pretending to be engrossed in gown selection. But the strange lump I felt wouldn’t go away, even when India narrowed her gaze on Morgan and snapped, “Your dress is way too big.”
We focused on my niece.
“That dress,” India clarified, pointing at Morgan. “It’s like a whole size too big. It’ll look hideous on stage.”
“It is?” we asked.
Though when I looked closer, I saw that the bodice did look loose, the shoulders extending beyond Morgan’s.
We looked at the saleswoman for guidance.
“Yes,” she conceded, nervous about not getting her sale. “It should fit better. Let me see if I can find the smaller size.”
The saleswoman disappeared through a curtained doorway and we could hear her pick up the phone and dial.
Morgan looked crushed, and while I could see the dress actually was too big, I had to wonder if India’s concern was genuine.
“Maybe it could be altered,” I suggested.
“You don’t want to alter a dress a whole size,” India said. “It’ll look even more hideous. And I know that dress has been here for a while, so I doubt you’ll find it anywhere else.”
“I found it!” the saleswoman added, rushing back. “There’s only one in her size and it’s in Dallas, but I found it!”
For a second, I thought India looked furious. But when I looked closer, she just smiled. “It’s going to be perfect, Morgan!”
Janice paid for the gown and left her phone number so the saleswoman could call when it came in. As we were walking out, Janice slipped her arm around Morgan’s shoulder. It was awkward, no question, but I saw the emotion that flared in India’s eyes at the sight.
I felt like the knot in the middle of a tug-of-war rope, one second being pulled toward being suspicious of India, the next being pulled toward feeling sorry for her.
“I’ve got to go,” she said abruptly.
Truth to tell, I was glad to see her disappear as my rope was getting frazzled. Not that this was about me, but really, one of the reasons I was cut out for the law was that I didn’t allow myself to get all emotional over other people’s problems. Which reminded me that I seemed to have done nothing but get involved in other people’s problems since I crossed the state line.
By the time Janice, Morgan, and I pulled up to the house we were feeling pretty good. But inside, a concerned Lupe offered a dejected-looking Cinco a tall glass of chocolate milk.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Meester Cinco, he no find jobs.”
Janice strode forward and ruffled his hair. “I told you no one would pay to have their bikes cleaned, sweetie.”
Savannah pushed in wearing a gossamer robe fluttering with boa trim. “What’s going on here?”
“Cinco went door to door trying to make money by cleaning bikes,” Janice explained.
“That’s ridiculous,” Savannah announced.
Great. Salt to the wound.
Lupe glared at her, though, as always, it was wasted energy.
Cinco took a dejected sip of chocolate milk. “It’s okay. I don’t care.”
Savannah marched forward. “It’s ridiculous because no one around here owns a bike.” She snorted. “Everyone around here is old.”
Cinco looked up, confused.
“You should have come to me. There are three bikes out in the storage bin that need to be cleaned.” She looked at him. “But really, does anyone think that I have time to clean a bike? No, no, no. So a bike cleaner is just what I need.”
“Really?” Cinco’s eyes went wide.
“Of course, really. Come on.”
They headed out, Cinco in cargo shorts, T-shirt, and baseball cap, Savannah in pink gossamer and feathers. Had I not been there to witness the scene, I never would have believed it.
“Mees Savannah. Being nice.” Lupe shook her head and snorted. “Always surprises around here.”
Janice stood staring at the door in surprise. And if surprise was the emotion of the hour, then sheer unadulterated shock followed on its heels when Savannah returned to the kitchen, cobwebs in her hair.
“He’s set up outside with the bikes,” she explained.
She stopped when she noticed that everyone was staring at her. “What?”
But she didn’t wait for an answer. She marched out of the kitchen, trailing dust and cobwebs in her wake.
Amazingly, when all was said and done, Savannah doled out a dollar fifty per bike. The only person in Wainwright House who wasn’t surprised by this was Cinco, as if it never occurred to him that his massively spoiled prima-donna aunt wouldn’t be nice.
But if anyone thought that Savannah’s bout of niceness would translate across the board, they were sadly mistaken.
“Where are my sunglasses?” she demanded the next day, marching into the kitchen. “One of those rugrats has taken them. I know it.”
“Mees Savannah ees back,” Lupe announced.