Until You're Mine

Joy sank down in a chair, wishing she hadn’t been so quick to offer up her work. No one but her family had ever seen her designs. And here was a woman dressed in an Escada jacket and slacks pouring over an amateur’s pathetic scratchings. Joy wanted to grab the drawings. Hide them. Protect them.

Cassandra went through the loose pile, sliding the thick sheets one on top of another. Joy wanted to point out errors, mistakes, places where she thought she could do better. But she couldn’t find her voice.

Besides, no doubt Cassandra would find the faults herself.

The woman looked up.

Please don’t be cruel, Joy thought. Let me down softly.

“These are wonderful,” the woman said, glancing back to the sketches. “You have an old-fashioned approach, particularly in the bodices, but the total effect comes across as fresh. Your color combinations are vivid and the elegance of line is…masterful.”

Joy went a little dizzy.

Cassandra smiled and looked across the table with open, friendly eyes. “You’re quite good. Perhaps better than good. Where did you go to school?”

“UVM.”

“I didn’t know they had a design program.”

“I majored in business.”

The redhead frowned. “Then who taught you this?”

“Well…I suppose my grandmother’s ballgowns and day suits from the fifties. She wore Mainboucher, St. Laurent. Chanel, of course. I’ve deconstructed all of her clothes. Taken them apart, laid them out panel by panel, studied how the structure of the garment was created in the seams and the folds and the gathers. Then I’ve stitched them back together. She wears them still. She’s—she’s ill, and if she doesn’t look her best, the dementia gets worse. We can’t afford new ones of the quality she once had so I just learned how to patch and preserve. In the process, I guess I got an education.”

“How extraordinary.” There was respect and compassion in Cassandra’s voice.

Well, this was just terrible, Joy thought.

First the woman turns up on Gray’s arm. Then she turns out to be a nice person.

God, as petty as it was, it would somehow be easier to dislike the widow.

Frankie came down the stairs, flushed as if she’d been in an argument.

“I’m sorry, Cassandra. He’s not awake.”

“He doesn’t want to see me, you mean,” the woman said in a small voice.

“I’m so sorry.”

Cassandra shook her head. “I’m sure it’s too raw for him still. Thank you for trying.”

“He’s just…” Frankie’s mouth thinned. “He’s hardened so much, he won’t listen to anyone.”

“Don’t be angry with him. I’m sure he’s doing the best he can.”

“Yeah, well, he won’t heal if he doesn’t let people in.”

“That’s his choice.” Cassandra took a deep breath. “But I shouldn’t be telling you what to do about your own brother.”

“You’re the only one outside of the family who has any right to an opinion,” Frankie said quietly. “I know I said it last night, but I’m so sorry for…everything you lost.”

“Thank you.” Cassandra’s eyes closed briefly. And then as if she were pulling herself out of a spiral, she looked at the table. “These sketches are truly wonderful, Joy. You have a spectacular eye.”

After goodbyes were exchanged, Joy and Frankie stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the BMW go around the bend in the driveway.

“I really liked her,” Joy said, heading back to the kitchen table. Her papers were in an orderly pile now. After Cassandra had looked at them, the woman had been careful to gather the drawings together, stacking one on top of the other. As if they were art.

“She is lovely,” Frankie said. “And she liked your stuff.”

Joy rifled through her work, looking at the images with fresh eyes.

“What time is Tom picking you up?” Frankie asked.

“What? Oh, seven. And thanks for watching Grand-Em for me.”

“My pleasure. It’s been too long since you’ve been out of this house and Tom’s a—”

“Really nice guy. I know. You’ve told me that.” And Joy knew it too well.

“There’s nothing to be defensive about,” Frankie said gently. “What’s going on, Joy? Are you nervous?”

“No. Not really. Now let’s get you out of that dress, okay? I’m living in terror of the grass stains you may have gotten on the skirt.”

“Are you sure you’re not worried about tonight? It’s been a while since you’ve gone on a date.”

“Thanks for the reminder.” Joy winced at her sharp tone. Biting her sister’s head off wasn’t normally something she did, but being reminded that she was going to be alone with Tom made her feel raw.

Probably because he wasn’t the guy she wished she was having dinner with and she felt badly about that. And also because she couldn’t have the man she wanted.

Neither of which was her sister’s fault.

“Sorry. I take that back, Frankie.”

“It’s okay. I suppose I just want you to have what I found.”

Joy took her sister’s hand. “That’s because you’ve always sought the best for me and you’re totally in love with a great guy. But maybe that kind of thing’s not in store for me, you know? And if it isn’t, that’s okay. Come on. Out of that dress.”

But it wasn’t okay. Not really. Somehow going on a date with a nice guy she really should like made her feel lonely. But Frankie was right. Even if Tom wasn’t the man she was going to end up married to, Joy needed to get out of the house.

Although by the time six-thirty rolled around, she almost had to cancel. Grand-Em was all worked up because she’d misplaced her first edition copy of Jane Eyre. The trouble was, she’d lost the book in 1963 while traveling abroad. Frankie insisted on handling the crisis so Joy could get ready and all was eventually calmed when Grand-Em took to reading the operating instructions for the new backup generator they’d bought.

The relief Joy felt when it looked as if she might have an out seemed like an insult to Tom so she became determined to make an extra effort. While blow-drying her hair, she talked to herself about giving people a chance, seeing past the obvious, valuing the steady over the exciting and dangerous. She even tried to channel various fairy tales with happy endings. The trouble with that, though, was Gray kept showing up in the prince suit with the glass slipper in his hand.

When Tom’s pickup rambled up to the house, she went downstairs, said goodbye to Frankie and Nate, and headed outside.

Tom came around and opened the door for her. He was freshly showered, wearing a button-down shirt that was painfully free of wrinkles. His khakis were likewise right off the ironing board. He looked like a man who had taken special care with his clothes and was uncomfortable in them, either because of all the effort he’d gone to or because he wished he had better options.

“You know what I think we should do?” he said as he got behind the wheel. “There’s a concert in the square tonight. They’re serving barbecue. We could walk around, listen to the music, eat on the grass.”

“That’d be great.”

He put the truck in gear and looked across the seat at her. “You look really pretty, Joy.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She smelled Windex, as if he’d cleaned the cab for her. “Thanks, Tom.”

Gray parked the BMW in front of Barclay’s Liquors, taking a space as it was vacated by a minivan. The town square was hopping tonight. A couple of white tents covered about half of the two-acre stretch of grass. Underneath them, people sat at picnic tables, eating barbecue that was being cooked over open flames on big, flat grills. In between the tents, a twenty-piece swing band was set up in Saranac Lake’s signature Victorian gazebo, its righteous horn section ripping through a Count Basie standard. People were dancing on a parquet floor lit with torches.

“Does the town do this often?” Cassandra asked as they crossed the street.

“Once a month or so in the summer. This must be the last one. In another couple weeks, it’s going to be too cold.”

Three teenage girls skittered by wearing glow-in-the-dark, green neon necklaces. In their rush, they moved over the ground with the same restless excitement and chatter as the loose, colorful leaves swirling in the chilly wind. The sound of their laughter made Gray smile as he and Cass ambled over to the tents. Smoke, infused with molasses and cayenne pepper, drifted into his nose. His stomach checked in with a grumble of approval.

“When are you going back to D.C.?” Cassandra asked.

“Very soon. I need to go to New York next week and then I’ll move Papa down.”

“Are you teaching that poli-sci seminar at Columbia again this semester?”

“Yeah. They asked me back.”

“We’ll have to have dinner. Maybe Allison and Roger can join us.”

“Sounds good,” Gray replied, even though the thought of the Adamses made him wince. He still couldn’t believe the adultery story, and was hoping when he looked into the facts Beckin had given him, that it would all be just a bunch of BS.

As he and Cass stopped in front of the band, he glanced over at her. She was staring at the couples that were dancing. “You ready for some food or do you want to risk a little swinging with me?”

“Sounds good.”

“Let’s try eating first,” he said gently. Cassandra had been remote since going to see Alex Moorehouse. Gray gathered that the meeting hadn’t gone well, but she didn’t seem to want to talk about it so he didn’t press.

As they got in line, he looked over at the people in front of the band. There were a couple of folks who could really dance, the men swinging the women over their shoulders, twirling their dates or wives around in circles. There was one couple who were damn good. The guy handled his woman as though she were an extension of his own body and she responded to him as if thinking of the same move at the same time he did.

Gray stopped moving.

Good Lord, it was Joy.

As the song came to a fevered end, that White Caps cook spun her around, flipped her over his back and then dipped her low, holding her in place. Joy hung on to his shoulders, head back, breathlessly laughing. Her hair drifted down, almost touching the floor as she looked up at her partner.

Young and free. So beautiful, she hurt Gray’s eyes.

The man slowly lifted her to the vertical, his hands lingering on the small of her back.

Gray ground his teeth. He had a stupid, near overwhelming urge to march across the dance floor and peel the other guy off her. Roughly. And sure enough, he felt his weight shifting to his left foot and his right knee bending up. As if his body were not under his control.

He forced himself to look away.

Her boyfriend had every right to touch her. And given the way she’d held on to him during that flashy finale, she wanted the guy’s hands on her.

Damn it.

“Gray? What’s the matter?”

Evidently he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing.”

“We’re up. What do you want?”

Now if that wasn’t a loaded question.

When they’d gone through the line, they took their food over to a picnic table and squeezed in with a couple and their two kids.

Gray bit into a steaming rib. Spicy and piping hot from the grill, the burn on his lips and tongue was distracting, but didn’t go far enough.

Then again, he’d need someone to go Medieval on his ass to get Joy off his mind.

“So tell me something,” Cassandra said as she picked up a piece of chicken, her pinkies cocked.

“Hmm?”

“How long have you wanted her?”

Gray froze.

Okay. So now his pork tasted like an old shoe.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Bennett. I saw how you were looking at Joy just now. And last night.”

Gray stabbed some coleslaw with his plastic fork. Thought about putting the subject on ice. Didn’t.

“You see that guy with her? The young one?”

Cassandra nodded.

“You see how happy he makes her?”

“I see how much she enjoys the dancing. I don’t know how much of it is him.”

Gray leveled his eyes across the picnic table. “Don’t split hairs. She’s glowing. You honestly think I could make her feel that way?”

“Well, yes.”

“Wrong. A girl like that is going to want more than sex, Cass. Hell, she deserves more than that. And flyboy with the smooth moves over there no doubt has love on his tongue and a ring in his pocket. A couple of nights is all I can offer her. Maybe not even that.”

“Don’t shortchange yourself.”

“You know my history and people don’t change.”

“Not true.”

He rolled his eyes and poked at his food. “Fine. I’m not going to change. She’s not my type and I like her too much to—”

“Hi, Gray. Cassandra.”

His head snapped up. Joy and the cook were walking by the table.

As she lifted her hand in a tentative greeting, Gray’s eyes went over every inch of her black sweater and her worn blue jeans. Her hair had curled up around her face from exertion and her cheeks were flushed.

Oh, sweet, beautiful girl, he thought, fingers tightening on his plastic fork until it bent in two. He dropped the thing quickly and wiped his mouth.

“Hey, Joy,” he said before hitting the blond-haired guy by her side with what he hoped passed for pleasant inquiry. “Tom, right?”

Tom nodded slowly, as if he sensed he should tread carefully. “Yes, Mr. Bennett.”

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