36

There. All done.” Claire stood behind her mother as they examined her handiwork in the mirror.

Alison’s eyes widened. What magic had her daughter wrought? Was that her, Alison McLawhorn Monaghan, glamorous and sophisticated?

“What have you done to me, Claire?” she whispered.

“Don’t you like it? You’re . . .” Claire searched for the right word.

Alison tilted her head. “Almost beautiful.”

“So you do like it.” Claire finger combed a few hair strands behind her mother’s ears, smoothing them in with the rest of her silver-blonde hair, styled in a 1930s Art Deco chignon. Claire reached for the hairspray.

She grabbed for the can as well. “Whoa there, Hairdresser Extraordinaire. It’s plastered to my head.”

“Oh, Mother. It’s perfect.” Claire twirled several short strands of hair into a curlicue and layered them on each of Alison’s cheeks.

Alison turned this way and that trying to get a fully rounded view of the new and improved Alison Monaghan. “I look so different. Not like myself at all.”

“It’s not supposed to be you. It’s a costume ball, and you are a starlet, a Hollywood glamour girl from the silver screen.”

She raised a hand to her face. “I don’t usually wear this much makeup.” Her brown eyes appeared twice as large thanks to Claire’s lavish application of eyeliner and lash-lengthening mascara.

Claire slapped her hand away from touching her rose-tinted cheeks. “Stop being such a prude.”

“Where did you get this stuff?” She swept her hand across the top of the dresser where piles of eye shadow, foundation, and mascara littered the surface. She peered at herself in the mirror. “And would you look at my cheekbones?”

“I sculpted them, emphasizing the assets you already possess. You look gorgeous, Mom. Relax. I’ve been watching that makeover show on cable. You have to put the makeup on with a trowel for an evening event.” Claire’s tone implied, don’t you know anything, Mom? “Turn around. Let’s get the full effect.”

Alison pirouetted in slow motion. Claire, like an anxious mother hen, plucked at stray threads only she could see.

The form-fitting gold lamé hugged every curve of her body. Where she didn’t possess the right degree of curve, Claire had cleverly augmented her mother’s lack of cleavage by inserting a built-in push up bra.

Claire had also chosen—after listening to her “client”—to place the slit in a wide V in the front of the floor-length dress. Its peak slightly above the knee gave the mysterious illusion of more than was actually revealed. She’d sewn a black feather boa into the top of the off-the-shoulder bodice.

Alison kept hoisting the straps onto her shoulders. Claire kept pulling them down and off her shoulders.

Claire nodded. “You’ll do. Oh.” She grabbed the dangly diamond pendant earrings from the bureau. “Don’t forget Grandma Irene’s earrings. Vintage to the period,” she noted with satisfaction. “I do so love, as the TV guy used to say, when a plan comes together.”

From her elbow-length ivory satin gloves to the faux diamond bracelet, unsure how to take in this transformation, Alison glanced over her shoulder at her backside. “Do you think this dress makes my butt—?”

“No, I do not think this dress makes your butt look big. Get a grip, Mom.”

She tried to get adjusted to the vision in front of her eyes. The dress was beautiful. Claire had used her eye for color, texture, and line to create something out of the ordinary.

Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could believe she was actually some screen siren. She certainly looked like she belonged in an Agatha Christie costume drama. “Thank you, Claire. You outdid yourself.”

The doorbell rang downstairs. Her hands convulsed at her sides.

“I’ll get it, Mom,” yelled Justin from the foot of the stairs.

“Showtime.” Claire pushed her mother toward the stairs. “Let’s not keep Mike waiting.”

Alison dug in her heels, but it was a losing battle. “Are you sure,” she hissed over her shoulder to Claire, “that I look okay? That I look my age and not like I’m having a midlife crisis?”

Claire put her back into it. “You look great. Mike’s going to love it.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She reached the landing and peered over. Justin and Mike stood in the foyer.

Wearing a double-breasted, pinstriped tuxedo, like some 1920s gangster, Mike carried a small white box in his hand.

Alison fell back onto Claire. “I’m not ready for this.”

“Stop stalling, Mother. You’ll hurt his feelings. Don’t panic. He brought you a corsage to match your dress per my instructions.”

A corsage. Classic Claire.

She squared her shoulders and started down with Claire lagging a few steps behind. Claire was determined to let her have her so-called Big Moment.

The guys were probably going to laugh their heads off at the sight of her. She looked ridiculous in this getup. She was more of a flip-flop, casual sort of girl than steamy sex symbol.

But, perhaps the outfit would give her the courage she normally lacked. She wanted to get this entire evening over with as soon as possible.

About halfway down, the guys stopped talking and looked up. Justin grinned from ear to ear. A crooked smile hovered on Mike’s granite face, a frown between his eyes.

She swallowed. He didn’t like—

“Wow.” Justin high-fived his sister. “Way to go, Claire. You look beautiful, Mom.”

She gave everyone a tremulous smile and patted Justin’s cheek with one satin-covered hand. “Thanks, honey. You know how to make a girl feel special.”

“Here.” Mike thrust the box at her, landing a small blow to her stomach. A spot of color darkened each of his sharp, high cheekbones.

She took the box and, with trembling fingers, removed the corsage from the packing. “You shouldn’t have, Mike.” She slipped the purple-tinged orchid over her wrist and shot a pointed look at Claire. “You shouldn’t have, but thank you. It’s beautiful.”

The refracting light of the chandelier lent a shimmering, rainbowlike quality to the entryway. Claire handed her the gossamer gold stole, again from the wardrobe of Grandma Irene—a prominent Irish city councilman’s daughter.

Mike cleared his throat. “Justin’s right. You look stunning.” He appeared distracted, glancing about the foyer. “We’d better get going. Officer Ross will be outside as usual all night.”

Claire took the empty box from her mother and handed her mother a small, ivory-beaded clutch purse. “And what time do you plan to bring our mother home, Detective Barefoot?”

Alison gasped. “Claire.”

Justin laughed. “Yeah. About what time should we expect you?” He crossed his arms across his chest and tried to look stern.

Her children were having way too much fun with this situation.

Mike leaned against the railing of the stairs. “Whatever time you say, Mr. Monaghan, sir.”

Justin pretended to frown. “I think before midnight sounds about right to me.” He opened the front door for them. “We’ll be waiting for you both.”

Mike jiggled his keys. He winked at the kids as he passed, and she attempted a wobbly smile.

Midnight. Wasn’t that when coaches turned into pumpkins anyway?

Weathersby glowed with life when Alison and Mike arrived. Every room in the three-story house was alight. The grounds, thanks to hundreds of Chinese lanterns and small fairy lights, had an air of magic, full of romance and possibilities. They paused at the top of the stone steps between the gap in the yews to take in the scene.

The scent of lilacs hung in the April night air. The sun, almost below the horizon, created its own spectacular show with luminous streaks of pink, purple, and smoky blue.

The ride over in Mike’s truck hadn’t been uncomfortable, though he kept glancing over to her as he drove.

Feeling self-conscious, she put a hand to her chignon. “I know I look . . .”

“You take my breath tonight.” He reached over gently flicking one of her earrings into motion and placed his hand beside hers on the seat. “But I also have a fondness for girls who wear flip-flops and drink exotic coffee.”

She could feel him smile. She didn’t know how she could, but she could.

Driving into the packed parking lot, she realized this fundraiser ball was shaping up to be The Event of Raleigh’s social season. Everybody who was anybody was bound to be here tonight. The question was, what was she doing here?

She shivered with sudden nerves.

“Are you cold?”

She shook her head. “No, just . . .”

Mike squeezed her hand. “Me, too.”

His hand sent a tingle up her spine. It made her feel dizzy.

“You don’t look it,” she hastened to assure him and distract herself from the direction of her treacherous thoughts. “You clean up pretty good.” He did, rugged yet debonair, thanks to Claire’s efforts. Like a cowboy all dressed up.

He smiled, one of those rare, genuine moments of warmth reaching all the way to his eyes that he only occasionally displayed when he let his guard down. “Shall we?” He held out his arm.

She took a deep breath and slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow.

He patted her gloved hand. “Can we eat first, before we start casing the joint?”

She laughed.

As they made their way into the catering tent, she noted Natalie and Erica over by the dance pavilion. Natalie, true to her word, had on the cloche hat with a designer-quality fringed black flapper dress that showed off her tanned, muscular legs to perfection. As intended, no doubt.

She kept her eye on them through the open flap of the tent entrance as she picked up a glass plate. Mike piled his plate as high as gravity would allow, the variety and amount of food not often enjoyed on a cop’s salary.

Erica, true to her more modern inclinations, was dressed as a psychedelic flower child, her go-go skirt revealing as much leg as Natalie’s. Gel spiked Erica’s strawberry blonde hair, and a matching tie-dyed headband encircled her head. Erica pointed at Natalie’s hat. Natalie had added an artfully placed black feather on the side of the hat.

Erica had recognized the cloche hat from the Weathersby collection. Alison noted this with satisfaction as she dived into the Caesar salad. From her vantage point, it was obvious the two were engaged in a shouting match. Only the discordant strains of the nearby orchestra tuning up kept their battle skirmish from attracting more attention.

Mike gazed at the dessert table with undisguised longing. She could tell he was calculating whether he should defy gravity or get another plate and then, if he could carry two plates successfully out to the tables near the pavilion. She buttered a wheat roll before adding it to her plate.

The shouting match escalated. Both women waved angry arms and pointed fingers in each other’s faces. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Hilary—at least she thought it was Hilary in a farthingale—on her way to intervene.

She found it hard to tell who was who among the cleverly disguised doctors, lawyers, and politicians partying tonight as Civil War generals, World War I flying aces, and what looked like a roll call of debutante fashions through the ages.

Apparently deciding he possessed enough balance and fine motor skills to juggle two plates at one time, Mike heaped great tablespoons worth of cheesecake, German chocolate cake, and French silk pie onto a smaller plate.

Leaning over the almond-slivered beans, Alison observed Natalie give Erica a mighty shove. Erica would’ve fallen right on her keister had Todd Driver not appeared in the nick of time to save his princess from public humiliation and a sore behind.

Erica fell into Todd’s waiting arms. A dream come true for him. All of his expectations of playing the handsome prince and rescuing his damsel in distress from the fire-breathing dragon were becoming reality at last.

The romantic analogy broke down for her as she surveyed the wild 1970s Afro cleverly concealing his receding hairline coupled with a heavily fringed leather vest and matching skintight pants. The psychedelic shirt made her eyes cross. No question who’d planned their little ensemble. It had Erica written all over it.

Hilary reached the tableau, and from body language, she surmised Hilary told them to calm down or take it off site. Erica, suddenly the fragile, ethereal creature, clung to Todd’s masculine—ahem, make that skinny—arms. It was probably the proudest moment of his life. He unsuccessfully tried to control his glee by frowning ferociously at Natalie.

“Can we find a table now?” A sheen of perspiration glistened between Mike’s brows. He balanced a plate in each hand.

Enjoying her upper hand with him for once, she sailed forth from the tent like the QE II on her maiden voyage. “Certainly.” He took careful, mincing steps, struggling not to capsize in her magnificent wake.

She found the perfect spot, a table close enough to the dance floor to enjoy the view yet not close enough to the orchestra to make conversation difficult. It was also perfect because Stephen and Val were already there and saving places for them.

“At last,” cried Val. “We saw you two go into the tent and were afraid you were never coming out.”

Stephen kept chewing.

With a sigh of relief for not having disgraced himself and the entire Raleigh Police Department, Mike took a seat across from Stephen, clad in a vintage World War II army staff uniform. “My granddad served with Eisenhower in London before D-Day,” said Stephen in between bites at Mike’s upraised brow.

Mike grunted. “Why couldn’t Claire dress me in something more masculine like Stephen? I’m even an army vet. I feel like Alison’s fancy man bodyguard.”

“I think you look sophisticated.” Val took a sip from her crystal goblet. “A man with the right amount of confidence to carry it off.”

He grunted again, more satisfied this time, though, and adjusted his bowtie.

She winked a thank-you across to Val. “I love your costume, too, my friend.”

“This old thing?” Val waved a hand. “After getting a preview of that luscious number Claire was making you, I ditched the costume and borrowed from my mom’s old trunk in the attic. This is from the one time Mom and Dad attended the governor’s inaugural ball in Raleigh when Jackie Kennedy was all the rage in Paris and Berlin.” The pale pink floor-length gown was as classically chic as the former First Lady herself.

“You sure look different, Ali.” Stephen glanced at her. “Ow!” as Val kicked him under the table. “I mean that in a good way. Ow!” as Val with a fierce smile landed another blow on his shin. “Okay, I’ll shut up now,” and he shoved a stuffed mushroom into his mouth.

“Don’t mind him.” Val gritted her teeth. “You can dress him up, but you can’t take some people anywhere. Forget he’s a top cardiologist. Most people don’t realize how dim Stephen is because I’ve been covering for him for years.”

They all laughed, Mike around a mouthful of beef Wellington. Night had fallen, revealing a crescent moon. The stars blazed high overhead. The orchestra played a series of waltz numbers. People, like on the ark, paired up two by two and filled the dance floor. Hurricane lamps on the tables imparted a flattering old-fashioned candlelit glow.

“Care to dance, Alison?”

She jumped as Robert appeared—as if out of nowhere—by her side. Mike choked, caught with a chicken wing in his mouth.

Putting a hand over her rapidly beating heart, she gave Robert her other hand. “Sure.” She glanced sideways at Mike.

Robert drew her onto the floor, and she was amazed at his skillful leading as he steered her between the dancing couples, making a full circuit of the pavilion.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said, not altogether surprised.

He had a natural grace. Robert had the dapper, distinguished air of Cary Grant in his elegantly cut full evening attire.

“You, Alison Monaghan,” he smiled into her eyes, “are beautiful, inside and out.” He squeezed her hand as he whirled her about the floor.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt—maybe never—this lovely. Robert held her as if she were an exquisite piece of porcelain. As a gawky teenager and adult, who often towered like a giraffe over many men and boys, Robert somehow managed to make her feel petite.

But instead of finding herself lost in Robert’s admiring gaze, she found herself looking surreptitiously over Robert’s shoulder to Mike glowering at their table. And as Robert whirled her around the pavilion, she wondered if and when Mike would ever ask her to dance.

Why did it always seem to come back to Mike?

Maybe it was time to start listening to God and her heart.