eyes off each other.
But last night when she’d waved goodbye to Rebecca, Meg acknowledged that she wanted to keep Trey’s proposal to herself in order to sort things out on her own, without anyone else’s advice, no matter how well-intended. Kathie’s parting remark about making sure Trey was the one for her had stuck in her mind like a trendy song. Not to mention the hurt in Trey’s voice when she gently refused his offer to accompany her to Chicago.
If she was making a checklist of qualities she was looking for in a husband, Trey would score high. Handsome, polite, successful. They had similar tastes in books, films, politics. He was dependable—no, she would not say “boring”—and was always prompt for their Saturday-night dates and their Wednesday lunches. Friday evenings he usually spent with his father and two brothers in Mr. Carnegie’s home office, smoking cigars and catching up on family business—real estate, transportation and petroleum.
On Sundays she joined his family for brunch at their vast home—Trey’s brothers were both married, and everyone treated Meg as if she were already part of the family. The Carnegies had an opening, and she fit the mold—passably photogenic, suitably reserved and demurely successful. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that Trey had picked her because of some real or imagined checklist, and not because she moved him. And worse—that she’d allowed herself to be picked.
She pushed aside her troubled thoughts, and her spirits rose as the colorful showroom became illuminated. Rebecca’s costume shop was such a happy place, one couldn’t help but be transformed—the perimeter of the showroom was lined with racks of costumes ranging from blue dinosaurs to Frankensteins to medieval maidens. Meg walked around, stroking the rich fabrics and exotic trims, admiring the more detailed costumes displayed on mannequins—a suit of “armor,” characters from the Wizard of Oz, and an alien. The most elaborate costumes—an iridescent mermaid, an Indian chieftain, and many others were on dazzling display above the long counter.
Rebecca had also added a wall of performance costumes—spangled bodysuits, sequined halter tops, slinky pants, sheer skirts, high-slit gowns, and an array of showy accessories—shoes, hats, scarves. Even though she was alone, Meg looked all around before gingerly holding a blue sequined bikini up in front of her. She angled her head, smiling mischievously. Wouldn’t everyone be scandalized if the Teacher of the Year showed up wearing something like this? Then she sighed and rehung the bikini—some women were born to wear sequins and some women were born to wear cotton.
Mirrors abounded. She knew her sister enjoyed dressing up to entertain customers. Although Meg couldn’t bring herself to do the same, she had foregone her normal “baggy” dress in favor of jeans, T-shirt, and green V-neck sweater, all loose enough to conceal the curves her mother had convinced her eons ago would attract the wrong kind of attention. Since she’d inherited her mother’s figure, she assumed her mother was referring to the type of man her father had been—the type of man who would love, then leave a woman with two small children. Maybe that’s why she’d been drawn to Trey, to his…stability. And his relative indifference to her curves.
Unsure what the day would bring, she’d opted to French braid her fine-textured light brown hair into a single plait down her back to keep it out of her way. She squinted at her reflection—maybe she’d get a new hairstyle before she returned home, or even a complete makeover. Contact lenses? A new outfit? The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if she was simply bored with herself, and was allowing that boredom to overflow into other areas of her life. Somewhat cheered at her revelation, she turned her attention to opening the store.
Following a list of instructions Rebecca had left, as well as the numerous yellow sticky notes, Meg counted cash into the register, turned on the stereo beneath the counter, and flipped the sign on the door to Open. When she unlocked the front door of Anytime Costumes, she was startled by the ringing of the overhead bell.
“No bells,” she muttered, vowing to tie up the brass clanger as soon as she found a ladder.
Humming to the oldies tune playing over the speakers, she pressed her nose against the window until her glasses bumped. The street was studded with cars. Two policemen rode by on horseback. The shops across the street—a bakery, a drycleaners, and an old-fashioned barbershop—were already open for business. A rounded woman sweeping the sidewalk took a good-natured swat at a kid going by on a scooter.
It was a cool, blustery Saturday in Chicago, but the sky reminded her of a child’s drawing—clear blue with white fluffy clouds and a radiating bright sun, still hanging low. Meg grinned and stretched tall on the toes of her tennis shoes, effused with a heady feeling of freedom, like the first day of summer vacation.
But the tinkle of the bell on the door cut short her reverie. She turned, blushing guiltily at being caught in the throes of giddiness. She was, after all, representing Rebecca’s business.
“Hidy-ho!” A dark-skinned deliveryman walked in bearing a stack of packages and a friendly smile.
“Hello.”
His smiled widened. “You must be Rebecca’s sister from Peoria. She told me to expect you.”
She smiled and stuck out her hand. “Meg Valentine.”
“Hello, Meg Valentine. I’m Quincy Lyle. Welcome to Chicago.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t sure why, but she suspected the delivery man was gay. Maybe because he was so approachable—there was no filter of sexual attraction.
“Mighty good of you to look after the shop for Rebecca while she enjoys a few days away with Mr. Pierce.”
“You know Michael?”
He pushed back his cap. “I know almost everyone around here. They make a great couple, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.” Meg signed the clipboard he extended.
He gestured vaguely. “You know your way around the costume shop?”
“I’ve spent time here with Rebecca, but never on my own.”
“Have you met Harry?”
She frowned. “Who?”
He gave a little laugh and a dismissive wave. “Never mind.” He pulled a card from his pocket. “If you need help getting around town, or if you need anything at all, just call my cell phone number.”
Meg smiled. “Thanks.”
He nodded toward the street where more policemen on horseback had gathered. “I guess you heard about the local commotion.”
“No.”
“Big splashy benefit in town, lots of celebrities around.”
Meg made a rueful noise. “I have a friend who’s a celebrity hound—she’ll be disappointed she missed a chance to spot someone famous and get their autograph.”
“Do you have friends here in Chicago?”
“Not really.”
He rooted in his back pocket. “I have an extra ticket to a reception tonight if you’d like to come. The hotel is just a couple of blocks from here. A lot of my friends are coming—it’ll be fun.”
She smiled. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll do that.”
“Bring
