“You gonna pull that dress out, or are you trying to wrinkle it to death?”
Emma finally opened the bag and slowly pulled out the scarlet sheath she had purchased.
“Oh my.”
Determined to show just how silly she was, Emma held the dress up to her chest. It wasn’t all that long on the bottom, and not too tall on the top, either. It was cut low in the back and held up by two narrow straps.
“Stand up and show me,” Greta demanded, motioning with her hand and standing herself. “Oh Lord, that’s a sight I’ve waited years to see.”
“What?”
Walking around the table and taking the dress to hold it up to Emma’s shoulders, Greta smiled and shook her head. Emma stared at the woman who came up to her chin, and swore under her breath when she noticed the sheen in her friend’s eyes.
“I’ve been waiting twenty-four years for you to come to your senses, Emma Jean. This is you. The real you. This dress was made for your beauty.”
Emma snorted and sat back down. “I was temporarily insane when I bought it. That is not me. I’m flannel and denim and hiking boots.”
Greta reached into the bag and pulled out the matching shoes. “These could have been a bit taller in the heel,” she said with a sigh. “But I suppose anything sexier and you would have broken your neck.”
“I’m not wearing the dress, Greta.”
“Of course you are, child. And you’ll put your hair up all nice and feminine-like, and you’ll wear your mother’s pearls.”
Emma gave her a horrified look. “I’ll be laughed right out of the dance hall!”
“Oh, posh. It’s time the menfolk around here got woken up.” Greta laid the dress over a chair and sat down. “It’s about time you woke up.”
“I’ll look like I’m trying to impress … people.”
“Not people, Emma Jean. Just one man.”
“I sure as heck don’t want to impress Ben.” She sat her cup in the saucer with a clink. “Are you forgetting everything he’s done?”
Greta stared at her. “What has he done, exactly?”
“He got my sister pregnant and then walked away.”
“Did he? According to Michael, Ben Sinclair walked away from a confused young girl, not a pregnant one. He didn’t know, Emma. That makes a mighty big difference in my book.”
“Rumor has it he blew up the dam.”
All Emma got for that unworthy statement was a good glare.
“He’s going to cause trouble, Greta. And he’s going to take Mikey away.”
“Maybe not.” The old woman smiled at her. “Once he sees you in that dress.”
“Greta!”
“Oh, eat your cake, Emma Jean.”
Emma picked up her fork and drove it rather forcefully into the huge piece of cake. But she didn’t get the dessert halfway to her mouth before the back door slammed open and Mikey walked in.
“I’m here, Aunt Greta. What’s to eat?” he hollered to the entire house. “Oh. Hi, Nem. Back from your pilgrimage already?”
“That’s no way to come barging in here. And wipe your feet,” Emma said.
With the negligence of a teenager, he made a showing of scuffing his feet on the rug before he sauntered up to the table and examined its contents. He reached to pull out a chair, but stopped when his hand landed on the dress.
“What’s this?” He held it up. He looked from Greta to Emma, then back at Greta, and softly whistled. “Wow. Aunt Greta, you going to kick up some dust tonight?”
He winked at her as he held the dress by the straps, examining it again. “Ah, Grets, don’t you think it’s a little cold for this outfit?”
Emma grabbed the dress out of his hands and pushed it back in the bag. “Good point, Mikey. It’s definitely too cold for this.”
“That’s your aunt’s dress, Michael. And I’m lending her a pretty gold shawl to wear with it.”
For one fleeting moment, Emma saw shock wash over Mikey’s face. And then he just stared at her. Finally he nodded. “Take the shawl, Nem. And make sure those straps are good and secure.”
Emma stood up. “Here. You can have my cake. I’m going home.”
“Not yet, Emma Jean. I need you to take some laundry up to Wayne’s room for me,” Greta said, standing up as if to block her exit. She smiled up at Emma. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mikey can do it.”
“No. He’s got to get out the Henry J. He’s driving me into Greenville for a doctor’s appointment.”
Emma arched one brow at Mikey, but he was too busy stuffing his face to look back. His mouth full, all he could do was nod and shovel.
“Wayne Poulin is thirty-five years old. He should be doing his own laundry.”
“Here’s the key to his room. Just put the clothes in his drawers for me. Please?”
“Should I rotate his socks while I’m at it?” Emma drawled.
Greta shoved the basket at her. “That would be nice. And maybe you could dust a bit while you’re up there.”
Emma scowled at her.
“Oh, and make sure you don’t knock down the key he’s got hidden behind the picture on the dresser. It’s to his desk, and I don’t dust in there. It’s where he keeps his private papers,” Greta said, tossing a small ring of keys onto the laundry. “And while you’re upstairs, that gold shawl is folded over a hanger in my closet. Take it. And wear it and the dress tonight. That’s an order, Emma Jean.”
Emma went upstairs to Wayne’s room and set the basket down in the hall. She tried three keys before she found the right one. Silently scolding herself for what she was about to do, but determined nonetheless, she opened the door and stepped into Wayne’s private domain.
Emma sat the basket on the bed and looked around, wondering if she would have gone to Wayne’s rescue as quickly as she had Ben’s. She snorted. Not likely. She had never had a teenage crush on Wayne Poulin. She’d taken his measure the first
