Joy swept the dress into her arms and carried it over to her worktable. Her bedroom was small, so between her sewing machine, her mannequin and the bolts of fabric against the wall, space was at a premium. Thank God she only had a twin bed.
Over the years she’d patched and repaired countless ball gowns for their grandmother at her little makeshift sewing station. Emma Moorehouse, better known as Grand-Em, suffered from dementia so she was prone to irrational obsessions. And given that she’d once been a wealthy young lady of fine breeding and reputation, she felt uncomfortable if she didn’t look her best for the parties she was certain were just about to start every moment of the day.
Except there were no parties. There hadn’t been for decades.
With the declining fortunes of the Moorehouse family, there was no money to replace either the lifestyle or the luxury their grandmother had once known. But Joy was able to keep the Golden Era illusion alive by maintaining the forty- and fifty-year-old ball gowns. In doing so, she helped Grand-Em to find a measure of calm.
And discovered a passion for clothing design in herself.
“We’ve got three rooms filled this weekend,” Frankie said as she pulled on khakis. “Which means the leaf peepers are showing up on schedule.”
The White Caps mansion had been built by their ancestors at the turn of the nineteenth century and back then, it had been one of many Moorehouse real estate holdings. Now the ten-bedroom house was all that was left of a once mighty fortune.
In the eighties, their mother and father had turned the place into a bed-and-breakfast. Following their deaths a decade ago, Frankie had struggled to keep the business going, and it appeared that they’d finally turned a corner. The B&B was on the upswing, thanks in large part to Frankie’s fiancé, Nate Walker. Nate’s fine French cooking had made White Caps a destination and his timely investment in the business had pulled them out of a debt spiral.
“So, about tonight.” Frankie shoved her feet into a pair of beat-up sneakers. “Spike’s going to mind the store here with George on backup. Nate, Tom and I are going to head over to the Bennett kitchen in another hour or so. Can you get there about five?”
“No problem.”
“Thank God, Alex is willing to watch Grand-Em. Have you told him what to expect?”
Joy nodded. “I think he’ll be okay and Spike’s here if she gets really agitated. Fortunately she’s been quieter now during evenings.”
Stewarding Grand-Em through her delusions was usually Joy’s job, but they needed all the hands they could get for the party.
“I’m so glad Gray gave us this chance,” Frankie said, drawing her hair back. “He’s a good man. For a politician.”
He’s not a politician, Joy wanted to say. He’s a political consultant who specializes in elections.
But the correction might get her sister’s attention and Joy was careful about keeping her obsession with Gray to herself. Sharing pipe dreams was almost as futile as having them in the first place.
“You’re awful quiet, Joy. Are you sure you want to come tonight?”
“I’m just distracted.” By the fact that she was going to get to watch Gray for three, maybe four, hours. And that maybe she’d get a chance to talk with him.
Although the exposure probably wasn’t a good thing. After so many years of pining for the man, lately she’d been trying to let the unrequited fascination go. She was going to be twenty-seven soon, for heaven’s sake. Living in the fantasy was getting old. And so was she.
“You don’t have to come, Joy. I could have one of the waitresses sub.”
“I want to,” she said firmly.
Sort of.
Because he was going to look so good tonight. Grayson Bennett always looked good.
“You work too hard,” Frankie said.
“So do you.”
Frankie shook her head and then stared long and hard across the room. She’d worn glasses until recently, and without the lenses, her eyes seemed bluer than ever.
“You know,” she said casually, “I was talking to Tom yesterday. He was asking a lot of questions about you. He’s a really nice guy.”
Tom Reynolds was the new line cook who’d been hired to help Nate and his partner, Spike, in the kitchen. And he was a nice guy. With a nice guy’s sweet smile. And a nice guy’s gentle eyes. And a nice guy’s polite manner.
Except Joy liked what Gray had. The power. The charisma. The promise of breathtaking, hot sex.
Which probably would have shocked her sister.
If Frankie was the practical one, Joy was supposed to be the prim, protected youngest. Except she was getting bored with being good, especially whenever Gray Bennett came to mind.
Which, in spite of her resolve, was about as often as the grandfather clock downstairs spoke up.
Basically, every fifteen minutes.
“Maybe you and Tom should go out sometime,” Frankie said.
Joy shrugged. “Maybe.”
As her sister left the room, Joy sat on the bed. She knew her fixation on Gray was unhealthy. Getting tangled up in fantasies about some man she saw maybe five or six times a year was ridiculous. And it wasn’t as if he encouraged her. Whenever Gray came up to the lake in the summer and she ran into him in town, he was always friendly. He even remembered her name. But that was as far as it ever got.
Well, except in her dreams. Then it went a whole lot further.
In real life, however, the attraction was totally one-sided. She was pretty certain about how Gray perceived her and it was just what she thought of Tom, the line cook. Nice. Sweet. Young.
Completely unremarkable.
And the truly pathetic thing was, even though she knew all that, even though she wanted to forget about Grayson Bennett, she still couldn’t wait to see him tonight.
Gray worked his father’s tie into a Windsor knot. Ever since the stroke five months ago, Walter Bennett’s left side wasn’t working right. The physical rehab helped, and with time’s passing his brain had recovered some, but his fine motor skills were still compromised.
“You ready for tonight, Papa?”
“Yes. I. Am.” The words were slow and slightly garbled.
“Well, you look sharp as hell.” Gray measured his efforts. A little tug to the right and the tie was perfect.
Walter tapped his chest with a gnarled hand, pushing aside the strip of bright red silk. “Happy. Very. Happy.”
“Me, too.” Gray smoothed the tie back into place.
“Are. You?”
Gray walked over to the bureau
