Spring fancy Read online

  But-oh-it was a flattering hairdo. The style was chosen by Sandy to accommodate wide-brimmed straw hats, thus Winnie's streaked blond hair closely contoured her skull, lifting in the semidroopy Evelyn Nesbit coil that circled her entire head just within the hairline. She touched the puffy doughnut-shaped roll. Inside, a resilient "rat" added fullness. It felt foreign but not altogether alien. The dramatic change in her appearance made her smile at herself in the mirror and feel suddenly very, very impatient for two o'clock to arrive.

  Shortly before noon Winnie stepped out of the bathtub, dried her freshly shaved legs, briskly toweled her belly, breasts and arms but stopped dead when she caught the reflection of her hair again in the mirror. She leaned closer, touched the loose tendril coiling upon her temple and decided to go the rest of the route and apply makeup in keeping with the same tradition as the hairdo.

  But first she flapped a puffy mitt up one side of her body and down the other, liberally powdering her skin with the scent of Chanel No. 5, one of her few daily concessions to femininity. She was wild about the scent! She wondered what Joseph Duggan would think of it, but the sight of her naked puckered nipples made Winnie chide herself for caring what he thought. She had no business pondering the man's likes and dislikes, yet he'd been slipping into her mind, unbidden, all day.

  Her new underwear-pure white-was again a nostalgic trip into the past, for the merry-widow bra cinched her waist and flared at the cutaway hips with boned stiffness that few modern-day women experience. But the confining strapless support garment was necessary, owing to the styling of the bridesmaids' dresses Sandy had chosen. Winnie wasn't certain, when she'd finished applying her makeup, whether she'd done the right thing. The plum eyeshadow and darker penciled undershadings duplicated the look of the women pictured on old tin Coca-Cola trays, as did the apple-cheeked look she'd created with bright blush. But it was the lips she studied critically. She'd used cherry red lipstick and an applicator brush, etching the upper lip with exaggerated peaks, then narrowing the corners of her mouth until it took on the Cupid's pucker of Miss Clara Bow. Maybe Paul was right-she ought to dress up more often. It felt marvelous!

  She slipped on an everyday dress and then packed up her gown, dyed-to-match high heels, hat, makeup and hair spray, and glanced out the window to find the wind still bending the leafless treetops at a forty-five-degree angle. With a silk scarf wrapped around her precious hairdo she ran out to the taxi she had called.

  Racing up the steps toward the church door ten minutes later, she felt a thrill of anticipation-Joseph Duggan was probably inside already. Would she run into him in the vestibule the moment she stepped inside? Well, if so, at least she didn't smell like gasoline this time! But dammit, she didn't want him to see her with this scarf clutched around her head like a babushka.

  But the vestibule was empty except for the florist's delivery man and one of the ushers, still clad in blue jeans and sneakers, his tux in a bag over his arm.

  The two dressing rooms were situated just off the vestibule, and when Winnie opened the door to the women's, everything was excitement. Sandy was there already, as well as one of the bridesmaids, Jeanne, and right behind Winnie entered the other, a cousin named Jacqueline. Lighted mirrors reflected long plastic bags, women in half-clothed states and a bride with a bad case of the jitters.

  "Oh, Winnie, thank God you're here! I've been higher than a North Dakota kite, worrying that everyone wouldn't get here on time or that the flowers would be late, or the photographer would forget his camera or-"

  "All right, Sandra Schaeffer, calm down! None of the aforementioned calamities is going to happen. All of us are here now. The photographer is setting up his equipment inside, and the flowers are already in the vestibule."

  As if on cue, there came a tap on the door, and a gray-haired woman poked her head inside. "Anybody in here getting married?" Then she swept in, bearing a broad flat green box, followed by a series of concealing purple bags, and before she left, the excitement had heightened considerably. Mothers and the flower girl soon arrived, adding to the festive nervousness.

  The four young women donned their dresses, growing more fluttery and exhilarated with each passing minute.

  Sandy was in pristine white, of course, but each of the others wore a different pastel hue: Jeanne's powder blue; Jacqueline's daffodil yellow; and Winnie's that most feminine of colors-pink.

  Stepping into the ankle-length gown, Winnie caught the scent of Chanel, drifting up to her nostrils as she lifted first one foot, then the other, and slipped them inside the shimmery taffeta underlining over which the body of the dress was fashioned of organdy. Its skirt was pure vintage 1910, fitting snugly at the waist and hip, then flaring to a bell-shaped hemline that revealed her pink satin pumps with tiny straps across the instep, secured by a miniature pearl button on the outer side of each foot. The bodice of the dress was of simple spaghetti-strap styling, but its elegance was created by the loose transparent lace overbodice that attached in a drooping fashion at the waist, then covered the chest to the throat. In the back it was hooked only once-at the nape-then gaped open in a long slit to the waist. Its sleeves were shaped much like the skirt-belled, loose and slightly slithery. The hat-that crowning touch-was of pink open-weave straw, a wide-brimmed leghorn style not entirely in keeping with the 1910 look, but utterly feminine. It had a pink silk rose nestled where crown met brim, and matching ribbons circling the crown, then streaming behind to the waist. While Sandy went gloveless and carried white gardenias, her attendants wore white gloves and held small wicker baskets of spring flowers whose colors coordinated with their outfits: one of purple iris, another of lemony jonquils, and the last-Winnie's-of blushing pink hyacinth whose fragrance was nothing short of overwhelming.

  The two mothers, as well as grandmothers, nieces and flower girl, were all busy pinning on corsages. In the last-minute flurry Winnie caught a lingering glance at her own reflection.

  It was crazy, she thought, standing here gawking at herself and wondering what Joseph Duggan would think when he caught sight of her, yet that's exactly what she was doing. The muse made her heart flutter as if she were the bride, and when the call came to exit to the nave for group pictures, she placed a hand over her heart, then realized her palm was sweating within her glove.

  She picked him out with the surety of a wild bird seeking its life mate within a flock of thousands. Stepping out into the vestibule, she faced a duster of masculine backs, most of which were garbed in jet black. Even from behind, Joseph Duggan stood out, identifiable by his well-proportioned build and those dark brown curls. He stood with one hand in his trouser pocket, the vented tail of his tuxedo jacket caught on his forearm, tugging it aside to reveal a wedge of taut black fabric stretched across his flat backside. He was speaking to another man, gesturing with his free hand, which was covered halfway to the knuckles by a tier of white ruffles that sprouted from beneath his black cuff. Another band of white showed above his collar, and the relaxed curve of his knee was accentuated by a narrow stripe of black satin that crooked down the side of his trouser leg. His hand clapped the other man on the shoulder, and he laughed. The sound seemed to shimmy its way between Winnie's thighs and her sleek underslip, raising little ripples of pleasure.

  Mick approached the pair of men just then, appearing like a snowy swan among crows, dressed totally in white, his tuxedo jacket sporting knee-length tails at the rear. Yet Winnie scarcely afforded him a glance. Her eyes were fixed upon the black-clad figure of Joseph Duggan as he swung to face the groom, and the two clasped hands, exchanging words too low for her to hear across the murmurous distance between them. Mick drifted away, and Joseph turned in her direction, his eyes slowly scanning the vestibule.

  He homed in on her as surely as she had him, his eyes advancing no farther once they found hers. Something tight and restricting gripped her chest. A weightless sense of expectancy buoyed her stomach, and her heart danced hollowly against her ribs. His lips dropped open, and his eyes swept to
her feet and up again. The hand came slowly, slowly out of his pocket. Then he smiled, and something sizzling and exciting exploded in her heart. Oh, that smile! That wondrous killing smile! She hadn't imagined its brilliance. It was as blinding as ever.

  He shouldered his way forward immediately, excusing himself as he rested his hand on a woman's shoulder, gently nudging her aside, all the while holding Winnifred in his gaze.

  He approached with both hands extended, palms up. "My God, you look beautiful!"

  She gripped the basket in one hand but gave him her other. He pressed it between both of his palms, and she watched in fascination as he bent forward to kiss it. But finding it clothed in the white glove, he kissed instead the back of her wrist, just above the cotton. His lips were warm, his breath moist, and the back of his head a dark mass of ringlets as he bent to her and lingered.

  By the time he lifted his eyes and straightened, she was the color of the flowers in her basket.

  "Why, thank you, kind sir. And you look-" she braved a hurried sweeping glance "-dashing!" She tried to keep her voice steady, but telltale tremors made it quiver.

  "Are you afraid?" he asked and looked down at her hand, working it now between his own. "You're shaking." He galvanized her with his stunning eyes again while squeezing hard on her glove.

  She withdrew reluctantly from his warm hold. "Oh, it's just… just excitement! Aren't you excited?"

  His eyes danced mischievously-around, above, then into hers. "Absolutely," he returned softly. And she was forced to turn away when his dark brown pupils settled upon her bowed red lips and stayed there. He watched her relentlessly-she could feel it-even though he stood at ease, a hand again casually draped inside his trouser pocket. She was conscious of the faint scent of incense and that of candlewicks, and the ever-present aroma rising from the sweet spring flowers resting against her trembling stomach. When she could stand it no longer, she gave in to the irresistible compulsion and turned to study him, though common sense warned her not to.

  Whatever Winn had expected him to be wearing, it was not black. Most groomsmen wore baby blue, gray or rich nutmegs these days. Yet she thought she would never again believe black a drab color after seeing it stretched across the muscles and limbs of Joseph Duggan. It set off the froth of snowy ruffles at his chest in an utterly masculine manner. The crisp black bow tie made his sturdy neck look even more manly, and the skintight stretch of black vest was as tempting as a shadowed haunted house, inviting exploration in much the same way as forbidden, yet compelling things are wont to do. Her eyes were drawn to the deep U-curve low upon his midsection, where black abutted white as he again held the left panel of his jacket back, hooked behind his ruffled wrist.

  "Did what's-his-name see you dressed like this?" he asked unsmilingly.

  Her startled eyes swerved to his. "Paul. His name is Paul. And no, he didn't."

  "So I take it he's not here yet." He glanced around, but his gaze returned to her as if there were no help for it.

  "No, of course not. But he'll be here for the service." She fidgeted with the handle of her basket, suddenly wondering if the pancake hostess had made it back last night. "Did what's-her-name see you dressed like that?"

  "Her name is Lee Ann, and no, she didn't get back yet that I know of. And even if she had, she wouldn't have seen me. We don't live together if that's what you're asking. I live in an old house in Osseo with my two younger brothers."

  She felt the heat rising up her chest once again, staining her chin and cheeks. "I wasn't asking that."

  "No, I suppose you weren't. But now you know just the same." Was it her imagination, or had his shoulders squared defensively? He had skewered her with a look that demanded she raise her eyes to his, but she took refuge in staring at the basket of hyacinth.

  "Are you going to tell me, or not?" he demanded quietly, studying her averted face.

  Her eyes flew to his. "Tell you what?"

  "If you live with him."

  "I don't think it's any of your business." Then why was her heart flailing around like some wounded bird?

  "You're absolutely right. But I'm asking, anyway."

  She considered lying just to set him in his place, but in the end couldn't. "No, I don't. He lives in the house we'll be living in once we get married, and I live in my own town house on Shingle Creek Parkway."

  It hadn't been her imagination: he had straightened his shoulders, for now they relaxed noticeably as he released a pent breath.

  "Everybody to the front of the church now, and we'll take the group pictures!" Winnie nearly sighed aloud when the call of the photographer released them from the tension that seemed to dominate both her and Joseph Duggan today.

  At the open double doors he touched the holy-water font and crossed himself, just as she did, but he did not offer his elbow. They walked in businesslike fashion up the aisle, just as all the others did, then submitted themselves for juggling, posturing, sucking in and holding breaths, presenting left shoulders to the viewfinder, then right shoulders, then backing off so the bride and groom could be photographed by themselves.

  Winnie looked across the way to where the groom's attendants awaited further instruction. Joseph was staring at her as if puzzling something out, and she turned to whisper a trumped-up question in Jeanne's ear just so she wouldn't have to confront his eyes.

  The photos at the altar were done, and the photographer herded them back to the women's dressing room where he shot the bride with her mother and father, with the flower girl and quite naturally with her maid of honor. There was the traditional pose of Sandy displaying her ring while Winnie lightly held the bride's palm and admired. But the photographer had asked her to remove her gloves, and she was devastatingly conscious of her own diamond winking up at her reprimandingly. The sequence of shots seemed to go on endlessly, while several of the groomsmen lingered in the doorway, watching. Joseph didn't even bother disguising his obvious fascination with her-he came right in and stood propped against the back wall, watching the session with keen interest.

  There followed the old showing-off-of-the-garter shot, then the photographer bellowed, "Who's the best man and maid of honor?" Winnie's eyes sought Joseph's, and he boosted himself away from the wall. "I'd like a shot of the two of you together. Over here, against this simple background." And they found themselves nudged, pulled and manipulated into positions that pleased the photographer's compositional eye. There was one shot of Joseph bending over to sniff her hyacinths. In the middle of the pose he ruined it by sneezing-and everyone in the room burst out laughing, which managed to relieve some of the tension spinning between Joseph and herself. But it returned in full force when the photographer backed her up against Joseph's chest and asked him to place his hands on her waist.

  To Winnie's surprise the man behind her not only spanned her hipbones with his hands but pulled her back flush against his trouser front. She had a flashing forbidden thought that she was nestled against him at a very accommodating height-and yes, he was several inches shorter than Paul, and she immediately felt the intimate difference.

  The photographer asked her to lift her chin and turn her jaw slightly toward Joseph's. The juxtaposition of their faces brought her into the realm of his after-shave, a totally rich and masculine scent she'd never smelled before. Once, while they stood that way, she heard him swallow.

  Then, to her relief the torture was over. The photographer went off to get the flower girl and ring bearer, and Winnie drifted out to the vestibule, trying unsuccessfully to put Joseph Duggan from her mind. But during the relatively short time between then and when they were hustled into hiding so the guests could convene, he remained in her mind's eye, whether within view or not.

  The next time they met, the church was filled, the organ was rumbling overhead, and the vestibule was silent of even the most secret whispers. She was vividly aware of how intimately he had pulled her against himself only a few minutes earlier and found it extremely difficult to meet his eyes. She held back
, waiting until the last possible moment to join him and take his arm. Finally he came across to her and silently reached for her elbow, a sober expression robbing his eyes of their customary glint.

  The organ belted out the opening strains of Lohengrin, and he urged her into line behind the lead couples. She felt herself acquiescing with a stiffness that had somehow overcome her since the picture-taking episode. But when he released her elbow and found her hand, then tucked it securely into the folded warmth of his black sleeve, she knew a forbidden delight at the warmth radiating from inside the crisp gabardine.

  The flower girl and ring bearer stepped onto the white runner, and she felt Joseph cover her fingers on his arm, then squeeze them as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Winnie. I had no right."

  If only he hadn't said that! If only he'd left things as they were! If only she could have walked up the aisle upon his arm with hostility simmering in her veins, everything might have been all right. But instead he had to go and apologize, and make her look up into his unsmiling brown eyes and see how genuinely he meant the apology. And it was at that precise moment it happened. Something fine and compelling and all-encompassing, a certainty that this day was destined to change them both in ways neither wanted nor welcomed.

  Yet they were drawn to this place and time by forces beyond their control, with the organ playing a wedding march, and themselves clothed and coiffed in their regal best, stepping onto a white-lined center aisle, each of them trembling just a little and knowing beyond all certainty they should not be.

  There is that about a wedding that compels and sweetens and woos like nothing except perhaps the sight of a newborn babe. It is as magnetic as the poles, as undeniable as gravity and as captivating as the quest for love. During the next hour and twenty minutes, while Winnifred Gardner and Joseph Duggan witnessed the marriage of their two dearest friends, murmured the vocal responses and heard the exchange of vows between bride and groom, that magnetic force worked upon them, drawing their thoughts solely to each other, trapped as they were in vulnerable roles.