Love at Large (25 page)

“My aunt is a seamstress for the Boston theater crowd.”

“She did a marvelous job. It’s nice to see a beautiful woman in a beautiful gown, and not a sad and ill-fitted rented old thing.” Peacock lady cast a disdainful glance at the other ladies in the room.

“Thank you,” Fran said again.

The woman assessed Francesca’s gown once more, and smiled her approval. “You are beautiful, you know.” She stood up and held her mask over her face. “You’ll turn many heads out there.”

“Perhaps.” Fran gave an uncertain laugh, just as another ringlet slipped out of place. She sat down at the mirror and flinched at the way her corset cut into her.

“You will.” The woman dropped a gentle hand on her shoulder. “And I’m sure the right one will be among them.”

Fran took her eyes off the reflection of the stranger and focused on her once tall crown of hair that was now a lopsided blob. She fingered the loose tendril tickling at her nose. “I hope so.”

But there was no response. She checked the reflections behind her and discovered that Lady Peacock was no longer there; the woman was no longer anywhere. Fran scanned the room, but seeing no sign of the kind gentlewoman, she shrugged and returned to her primping.

After ten minutes, she knew beyond a doubt that without Aunt Judy’s extra hands, her hair was not going to return to the glittering pile of tawny-gold ringlets that it had been before she’d left her apartment. Drumming her fingertips on the vanity top, she debated on what to do. A motion in the mirror caught her attention, and she saw the jet black and daffodil ball guests pass through the door as another giggling gaggle of women pushed their way in. Fran groaned to herself as she recognized the newcomers as the “I can’t eat that” crowd of single ladies from work. Every Friday, Mr. Winters would bring in luscious bakery treats for the staff, but these girls just stood around, patted their barely-there bellies and exclaimed stupid catchphrases like, “A moment on the lips, forever on the hips.” But somehow, it was always Franny’s hips they looked at when they said this.

At the helm of the group was Tiffany Webber, the permanently “temporary” receptionist. Tiff the Temp spent most of the day gossiping about everyone and everything, and telling anyone unlucky enough to get caught by her that what she really wanted was to be a model or an actress. She’d only taken the job at Winters, Quinn, and Schmidt to cover the cost of her new “assets,” which she’d put on daddy’s credit card, wink-wink.

Fran shook her head at the sight behind her. Tiff’s new additions were dangerously close to falling out of the white peasant top she’d chosen to wear with her Colonial serving girl costume. Leave it to Tiffany to forgo the standard elegant gown for something more alluring, yet utterly common.

The gigglers huddled on the nearest velvet settee, heads together, and whispered amongst themselves. They were so intent on their gossiping that they seemed oblivious to Fran’s presence. She went back to the issue of her hair, and finally decided that if Tiff could go against the norm, so could she. She began to pull out the half-box of bobby pins she and Aunt Judy had painstakingly used to keep the mass of waves in place and dropped them into her evening bag.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Tiff’s sultry voice burned into Franny’s ear. “He could sail me around anytime.”

Fran figured she was talking about Jake, unless she’d set her sights on some other man tonight.

“I thought Fran was supposed to be here.” That was Jane, from accounting. Nice enough on her own, but such a mouse in the face of Tiff’s cattiness.

“She probably couldn’t find a dress that would fit over her fat gut.” Tiffany giggled.

Fran’s breath whooshed out of her, as though the thoughtless receptionist had punched her in said stomach.

“And so she decided to stay home and drown her sorrows in a gallon of chocolate ice cream.”

The women laughed, and for an instant Fran felt like she had ballooned 12 dress sizes. But she inhaled deeply, went to that “safe place” inside, the one where her high school counselor had forever tried to usher Fran and her classmates if, in the face of peer pressure, they felt like taking a hit from a joint. She tried to shake off the stinging hurt and continued to pull pins. She congratulated her reflection for not giving away the emotions roiling inside her.

“Besides, Fran probably realized that since it’s a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate dinner, she couldn’t afford second helpings.” Another round of guffaws followed.

Fran slammed her eyes shut and willed herself to envision her safe haven—Grandma’s garden on a perfect, still summer’s day. She was too old to let those brainless women make her feel like a hapless, helpless high school freshman lost among the most popular seniors.

The memory of Jake’s first day at her office flooded her mind. These same women that were making fun of her now had done it then too. They’d been grouped together in the break room, talking the usual “girl talk” about him being single, each one vowing to be the girl who caught him. Tiffany had declared that they didn’t have to worry about competition from Fatty Franny. “After all, what man would want a girl like that?”

Fran was frozen in the doorway, unable to move forward and face them down or to retreat to somewhere else. The childish conversation died when the unkind crowd saw her standing there, then they’d turned their backs and busied themselves with analyzing the doughnuts near the coffee mugs.

“Buy you a cup?” A gentle, masculine voice had said, just as two strong hands gripped her shoulders from behind.

Fran glanced back and connected with the kindest, greenest eyes she’d ever seen. She’d nodded and let him propel her towards the coffee pot, his hands still on her shoulders, the warmth of them radiating through her shirt, making her feel safe, and something else.

The other women in the room had swooped in on him like a flock of harpies, trying to wedge their way into his line of vision. But Jake just made mundane conversation with them as he filled two mugs, handed one to Fran, winked, and then let himself be swallowed up by his entourage of admirers.

After that, Fran hadn’t cared that she had been suddenly left alone. With his support, she’d been able to walk into the room with her head held high.

Since that day, she’d never been sure if his heroics had been because he liked her, or if it was just the thoughtful gesture toward a woman who’d been teased and embarrassed by her co-workers.

Hopefully tonight, she’d get the chance to find out the answer.

The last of her curls cascaded down past her shoulders and over the back of the chair. With a shaky hand she pulled up the sides, pinned the sections together behind her head with the gold barrette she’d used in the other style, and pulled a few strands down around her cheeks.

She stuffed the last of the bobby pins into her purse then pulled out the mask Aunt Judy had made for her. It was gold satin on the front and soft jersey cotton on the back, so it would be comfortable to wear. She positioned it over her eyes, tied the gilt ribbons behind her head and fluffed her hair.

She stood up, drew in as deep a breath as possible in her corset, and headed for the ball.

Fran pulled the mangled invitation from her purse, careful not to bring out a shower of bobby pins with it, and handed it to the blue-velvet-clad usher at the ballroom door. He nodded and motioned for her to follow him to the company table. As she glided into the room, the feeling of her mask against her face made her feel bold and ready to accomplish her mission.

And there he was.

Jake McCabe dressed as a proper Colonial navy captain, right down to the fake sword on his hip and knee-high black boots. Though masked like the others, Fran had no trouble recognizing the body she’d fantasized about for the last few months, which now lounged at the table, relaxed and casual, the pose of an un-self-conscious man. His legs were stretched out to the side, a champagne flute dangled from his right hand and rested against his muscular thigh. Fran’s trepidation turned into excitement when he did a double take at her arrival.

“Good evening, miss.” He eased himself out of the small chair and stretched to his full height. “Will you be gracing us with your company?”

“Why, yes, captain.” She joined in his game.

He reached around her shoulder and plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray. “Buy you a cup?” He grinned and handed her the delicate goblet.

She blinked at the echo of the familiar words and accepted his offering with a smile. “Thank you.”

She took a tiny sip; half wishing she could toss it back instead to bolster her nerves. She glanced around the room. “It’s quite a party, isn’t it?” She gave herself a mental smack in the head.
Wittier, Fran. You gotta do better than this!

“I suppose.” He set his half-empty glass on the table. “Though I’d rather be leading my crew and ship through the waves, drinking rum, and singing stupid sea chanteys as befits a sailor of my ilk.”

Jake’s mentor Jack Malone slapped the table and guffawed. “You mean like you did last May on that moonlight dinner cruise around the harbor, when you lost the first, second and third courses?” He gave a pronounced sniff of the air around Jake. “In fact, it smells like you’ve already tapped into a keg of rum before arriving here tonight!” He grinned at his supposed wit.

Jake returned the smile and tilted his head. “That’s just my Bay Rum aftershave, and thanks so much for reminding me about last May in front of all these lovely ladies.”

“Ooooh, I like it!” Tiffany sang as she grabbed his arm. Some of Fran’s enjoyment evaporated. “I think it smells great on you!” She nestled against him. “My, captain, isn’t that music wonderful?”

“Yes it is.” He patted her hand and scanned the room, his handsome profile hidden behind his mask. He turned to Franny. “Would you excuse us a moment?”

“Of, course.” Fran wasn’t sure he’d heard her reply, as small as her voice had become. She watched the attractive couple glide across the room and had to mentally nail her shoes to the carpet, so as to not give Tiff the Temp the satisfaction of seeing her slink away in defeat.

She took an unladylike gulp of champagne, sloshing some when her glass froze at her lip. Jake had stopped in front of a gangly Minuteman soldier. He slipped from Tiff’s grasp, made a deep bow to her, and handed her off to the exultant scarecrow of a man. It was all Fran could do to keep from running out to meet Jake, but she kept those mental nails in place, just in case she was reading the situation wrong.

“Now.” He drew up before her. “Where was I?”

“I suspect you were going to ask me to dance, captain.” She pursed her lips in playful thought.

“Oh, yes. That’s right.” He took the glass from her fingers, set it on the table, and took her hands. “I was.”

Two waltzes and many laughs later, Jake and Fran walked arm in arm back to the table. He pulled out a chair, and she settled herself into it.

“Captain.” Tiffany had appeared again and was patting the back of the chair beside her.

“Thank you, miss, but I already have my place.” He made himself comfortable beside Fran.

The green light to go flashed in Fran’s mind at his declaration. She threw back her shoulders, which pushed her breasts out to nice effect, and prepared to employ every seductive move she’d ever read in a romance novel.

As the six courses came and went, she was the most earnest of listeners as he spoke with the people around them, caressed his sleeve with her finger, and between the main course and the dessert, laid her hand on his thigh. He’d instantly retaliated by taking her fingers and squeezing them tight.

When the dessert of ice cream and strawberries arrived, Fran was feeling quite bold. She speared one of the smallest berries from her pewter plate and offered it to him. He licked his lips and gently grasped the berry in his teeth, making low moaning noises of delight at the flavor of the fruit.

“Why, Franny,” Tiffany laughed as Fran pulled the fork from Jake’s lips. “You shouldn’t be offering him the strawberry. You should be offering him the ice cream since that’s much more fattening.”

Leave it to Tiffany to ruin her meal.

But this time, instead of being rewarded for her remark with giggles from the other women, the table went silent. Jake reached out and brought Fran’s shaking hand to his lips. He stared at her with a warmth that made her feel like she’d just been wrapped up in a soft, cozy blanket on a cold night.

“Thank you for the sweets, my dear,” he whispered into her glove. “I’ll repay you later.”

Tiffany’s eyes widened at the silence around her, and the exchange of the two people across the table. “For goodness sakes,” she exclaimed. “I was just trying to give her some diet tips.”

Tiffany swung her arms out to her sides and connected with a tray of dirty dishes the waiter beside her was holding. The whole mess came crashing down into her lap. The women gasped, the men stood up, and Tiffany burst into tears and ran from the room.

The others around the table watched her race away then slowly continued their conversations as if nothing had happened.

Fran almost felt sorry for Tiffany, and the way the tables had turned on her.

Almost
.

The strains of another waltz began as the guests finished eating. Jake shoved back his chair and took Fran’s hand. “Shall we work off our meal, my dear?”