they hightailed it for Stu’s produce truck.
Wiry, ancient Stu was about to get in the cab, John Deere cap pulled down low, coveralls hanging off him like a sack. The old man was a typical Adirondack woodsman. Which meant if he was surprised to see Frankie coming at him in a wedding gown, you’d never know it.
“Nate and Spike need a special delivery of arugula,” Frankie said breathlessly. “Is there any way—”
“Yup.”
“By Tuesday?”
“Yup.”
“Stu, you are a magician! Thank you.”
There was a pause. “Yup.”
Stu doffed his cap and climbed up into the truck. Just as he was about to take off, a car came down the driveway.
It was a big BMW. Gray’s.
Joy nearly dropped the dress, at least until the lovely redhead got out. Then she began squeezing the fabric in her fists. She dropped the skirting before she got it sweat stained.
Frankie lifted a hand in greeting. “Good morning.”
“Hi.” Cassandra smiled in a small, tight way, as if she were uncomfortable. But then her eyes narrowed on the gown. “Good Lord, that’s marvelous.”
Frankie did a twirl. The white satin skirt billowed out as if the fabric knew it was time to show off. “Isn’t it?”
“Who’s it by? Narciso Rodriguez? No, Michael Kors.”
“Her.” Frankie pointed at Joy.
Cassandra’s eyes widened. “You did this?”
Joy nodded.
The redhead walked around Frankie, inspecting seams and folds. “You designed and made it yourself?”
“It’s a hobby.”
“You’re very good. Do you have any others?”
“Gowns? No. Designs? Tons of them. I could wallpaper the house with what I’ve sketched.”
“You’re quite good.” Cassandra smiled more widely, but the expression faded as she looked at Frankie. “I probably should have called first. I, uh, I was hoping Alex would see me.”
Frankie nodded. “Come on in. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
As they walked over to the kitchen door, Cassandra smiled at Joy. “And maybe afterward, you could show me some more of your work?”
Joy shrugged as they went inside, figuring the woman was just being polite. “I was refining a few sketches this morning during breakfast. They’re over here on the table.”
Cassandra went right to them and her focus was so intense, it was intimidating.
Joy sank down in a chair, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to offer up her work. No one but her family had ever seen her designs. And here was a woman dressed in an Escada jacket and slacks pouring over an amateur’s pathetic scratchings. Joy wanted to grab the drawings. Hide them. Protect them.
Cassandra went through the loose pile, sliding the thick sheets one on top of another. Joy wanted to point out errors, mistakes, places where she thought she could do better. But she couldn’t find her voice.
Besides, no doubt Cassandra would find the faults herself.
The woman looked up.
Please don’t be cruel, Joy thought. Let me down softly.
“These are wonderful,” the woman said, glancing back to the sketches. “You have an old-fashioned approach, particularly in the bodices, but the total effect comes across as fresh. Your color combinations are vivid and the elegance of line is…masterful.”
Joy went a little dizzy.
Cassandra smiled and looked across the table with open, friendly eyes. “You’re quite good. Perhaps better than good. Where did you go to school?”
“UVM.”
“I didn’t know they had a design program.”
“I majored in business.”
The redhead frowned. “Then who taught you this?”
“Well…I suppose my grandmother’s ballgowns and day suits from the fifties. She wore Mainboucher, St. Laurent. Chanel, of course. I’ve deconstructed all of her clothes. Taken them apart, laid them out panel by panel, studied how the structure of the garment was created in the seams and the folds and the gathers. Then I’ve stitched them back together. She wears them still. She’s—she’s ill, and if she doesn’t look her best, the dementia gets worse. We can’t afford new ones of the quality she once had so I just learned how to patch and preserve. In the process, I guess I got an education.”
“How extraordinary.” There was respect and compassion in Cassandra’s voice.
Well, this was just terrible, Joy thought.
First the woman turns up on Gray’s arm. Then she turns out to be a nice person.
God, as petty as it was, it would somehow be easier to dislike the widow.
Frankie came down the stairs, flushed as if she’d been in an argument.
“I’m sorry, Cassandra. He’s not awake.”
“He doesn’t want to see me, you mean,” the woman said in a small voice.
“I’m so sorry.”
Cassandra shook her head. “I’m sure it’s too raw for him still. Thank you for trying.”
“He’s just…” Frankie’s mouth thinned. “He’s hardened so much, he won’t listen to anyone.”
“Don’t be angry with him. I’m sure he’s doing the best he can.”
“Yeah, well, he won’t heal if he doesn’t let people in.”
“That’s his choice.” Cassandra took a deep breath. “But I shouldn’t be telling you what to do about your own brother.”
“You’re the only one outside of the family who has any right to an opinion,” Frankie said quietly. “I know I said it last night, but I’m so sorry for…everything you lost.”
“Thank you.” Cassandra’s eyes closed briefly. And then as if she were pulling herself out of a spiral, she looked at the table. “These sketches are truly wonderful, Joy. You have a spectacular eye.”
After goodbyes were exchanged, Joy and Frankie stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the BMW go around the bend in the driveway.
“I really liked her,” Joy said, heading back to the kitchen table. Her papers were in an orderly pile
