Storms and Dreams (Becoming Jane Book 3) (10 page)

“Ow! Sorry, jeez,” said the girl that was swatted. She rubbed her butt dramatically and I bit my lip to keep from laughing, then glanced up at Tom, only to burst out laughing when I saw his expression. It was somewhere between horror and bewilderment.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m not sure if there was a miscommunication, but we thought that—”

“I know, honey. I told you. Max and I go way back.” She walked to the rack of clothes nearest us, picked up the edge of the long white cloth that was draped over it and dragged it free, revealing a selection of cocktail dresses that took my breath away. “See,” she said, grinning at Tom. “Everything is hunky dory. We’ll find the perfect dress, the perfect shoes, the perfect purse and Jeanine and Jeanette here will do hair and makeup. She’ll be…What’s your name, hon?”

“Jane.”

“Jane, I’m Cordelia and I’ll have you pretty as a picture in no time. Don’t you worry, Dr. Grayson.”

“No,” he said unconvincingly. “Not worried, I just, want to be sure…everyone has everything they need.” He turned to me and widened his eyes, his gaze imploring me for reassurance.

“I’ll be fine.” I laughed and squeezed his arm.

“She’ll be fine,” Cordelia echoed cheerily, then walked to a steel door marked exit and pushed it open. “Now, you go out here, and make a right, three doors down, just after the trash dumpster is Carmine’s. He’s waiting for you to fit your tux. Give me three hours with your girl and when you come back, knock like this.” Cordelia rapped on the door, shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits. “That way I’ll know it’s you, and not one of the zombies tryin’ to sneak in.”

“Why don’t I just text Jane and let her know when I’m on my way?” Tom said, walking to the door.

“Suit yourself,” Cordelia said, shrugging. “Three hours.” She shoved him through the door and slammed it shut. “Now then,” she said, rubbing her hands together, “let’s get started.”

“
D
o you guys live together
?”

“Is he like, Australian? Like Chris Hemsworth?

“Is he a movie star?”

“Are those the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen?”

“Are you two in love?”

It was the third round of the twinquisition and I was seriously in danger of getting whiplash.

“Hold up a minute,” I said, laughing, as I stepped into another dress.

“Nope, hides your figure,” Cordelia said, snapping her fingers at me. “Take it off.”

“He is seriously foine.” One of the twins sighed.

“Seriously,” the other agreed, nodding with all the gravity of a priest giving last rites.

“Foine means he’s good-looking,” Cordelia told me with authority. “It’s what the young people are saying these days.”

“Let’s see,” I said, laughing as I wiggled out of the dress and handed it to Cordelia. “No, we don’t live together. He’s English, not Australian. He’s not a movie star, he’s an English professor. And yes they are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Are you in love?’ said one of the twins again.

Looked like they really wanted that one answered.

“Yeah, you forgot that one,” the other twin agreed helpfully.

Shit.
“Um, I uh…” I stuttered, wondering how I was going to dodge such a personal question, then gasped when Cordelia turned to me holding the most beautiful dress in the world.
Saved by the dress.

“Vintage Dior,” she said. “Mid-fifties. It originally had a pencil skirt that hit just below the knee, but the fabric was damaged so I had to shorten it.”

“Perfect,” I said. And it was. It was the same elusive lavender as the iolite necklace, a silky shantung with a silvery sheen and a slight nub to the fabric. The collar was off the shoulder, draping over the bust and wrapping around the waist in a sash. Cordelia removed the dress from the hanger and slipped it over my head, zipping me up as I inspected myself in the mirror.

“Cordelia, you’re a genius,” I said. “This is the same shade as that necklace I told you about.”

“That’s why I thought of it,” she said, folding her arms under her bosom with pride. “Dollars to donuts he comes back here with that necklace.”

“Oh no,” I scoffed.

“Yes he will,” she insisted, shaking a finger at me. “That man’s under your spell. And if he ain’t, he will be after he sees you in that dress.”

“Yep. She’s right,” said a twin.

“Definitely. You look foine.”

“You guys are sweet,” I said, smiling, as I admired my reflection. This dress certainly didn’t hide my figure; it showed it off expertly, the fabric gathered and dipped, nipped and tucked in all the right places, in the way only a vintage couture dress could.

“That’s the one, honey. No doubt about it,” Cordelia said, grinning at me slyly. I wondered for a moment if she meant the dress or Tom.

The twins pounced on me then, each of them pulling one arm to guide me to the makeup station.

“That color is perfect with your hair, and your hazel eyes. I’ll do your eye makeup in grays and lavenders, and dusty rose on your cheeks and lips,” said twin one.

“And an up-do for the hair,” said twin two excitedly. “But nothing too retro, I don’t want you to look rock-a-billy.”

“Loose,” said the other twin. “Romantic.”

“Yeah like, Grecian goddess meets
Mad Men
.”

“Totally.”

“I trust you both implicitly,” I said, laughing. “I can tell I’m in good hands.”

“The best,” they said in unison.

F
orty-five minutes
later I was buffed and trussed and ready for my date. I checked my makeup one last time in the mirror, nerves fluttering in my belly, as I heard manic rapping on the back door and then a loud sigh.

“Hello, it’s me?” Tom’s voice carried from the alleyway behind the shop. “It’s been three hours. Could you let me in? It’s quite cold out here.”

“You’ve got to make an entrance,” Cordelia said, shooing me away. I ducked behind a dress rack, and nervously scrutinized my ensemble. Sexy dress? Check? Gorgeous hair and makeup? Thanks to the twins, double check. Lacy lingerie? Check. Cordelia had been well stocked with hose and foundation garments. So thanks to her, I was currently sporting a set of ivory garters and hose. Shoes? Yes, check. Thank god. I’d had a quick panic over shoes until Cordelia had found a pair of dyeable stacked heels in my size. I didn’t know how she had done it, but an hour later she had presented me with an almost perfectly matched lavender pair of pumps to go with the dress. I’d hugged her three times I was so happy.

Cordelia walked to the door and pressed her ear to it, grinning at all of us with her finger pressed to her lips. The twins giggled loudly. “Shhh,” she mouthed.

“Hello?” he called again. “I texted. It’s me.”

Oh shit,
I thought, looking at the makeup counter where my phone sat. We’d been having so much fun I hadn’t heard his text.

“Look, I’m sorry if I didn’t do the secret knock correctly. I wonder if my accent could simply vouch for my identity instead?”

“Hello, Professor,” Cordelia crowed as she threw open the door. “Entree’”

“Oh, thank god. It’s freezing out there.” Tom stepped inside, rubbing his arms, his eyes scanning the room for me. I stayed hidden, peeping at him from a gap in a row of pantsuits. My eyes burned at the sight of him—he was glorious. His hair was brushed back, the unruly curls and waves coaxed into place. He wore a crisp black tux and waistcoat, slimly tailored and set off by satin lapels and a sharp bow-tie.
Seriously foine.

“Thank you for everything, Cordelia,” he said, his eyes still flitting around the room. “I sincerely appreciate you taking the time from your holiday to help us out. Truly. How much do I owe you?”

My ears perked up when I heard that. The stupid gentleman was trying to pay for my dress, exactly what I’d told him not to do. I started to walk out to them, to interrupt and protest, when Cordelia spoke.

“That’s all taken care of. Like I said, Max and I go way back. We’ve each got a list of favors and IOUs a mile long. This afternoon helped me cancel out about three of them. And it was fun, to boot!” she said, punching him in the arm. I had to cover my mouth with my hand when I saw him rub his bicep.
Lightweight.

“Well, thank you, again,” he said, smiling. “We should get going. Is she ready?”

“Sure is. Jane?” Cordelia called sweetly, and I heard the twins giggle hysterically.

The jitters in my stomach picked up again and I rolled my eyes at my own foolishness. I’d been naked, on stage, in front of hundreds of strangers at a time and not felt a single frizzle of nerves, but as I stepped out from behind the clothes rack, I swear my ankles wobbled. And then my heart wobbled, too. Tom stood just feet away, his hand on his chest, his eyes shining and wearing an expression that utterly disarmed me.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, a smile crinkling at the edges of his eyes. He cleared his throat and walked towards me, pulling something from behind his back as he spoke.

“Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service.”

“Awwwwwwwww!” the twins sang in unison.

“Oh my god, did you write that?”

“No dummy, it’s Shakespeare.”

“Ow!”

“Shush, you two,” Cordelia hissed. “They’re having a moment.”

Tom held a box in his hands.

“You didn’t,” I said, eyeing him, a smile pulsing over my lips. I was thrilled. Thrilled to see him, thrilled at his reaction to seeing me, and thrilled, despite my previous protestations, to see the box in his hands.

“Open it and find out,” he said, arching an eyebrow.

I opened the box. It wasn’t the necklace. It was the necklace, a pair of earrings and a bracelet. All white gold, all set with the same shimmering lavender stones and diamonds. All sparkling as if the stones were as happy to see me as I was to see them. I was speechless.

“I’m, uh…” He cleared his throat again. “I’m pleased to see they’ll match your dress.”

“I can’t even imagine how expensive this was.”

“Oh well, don’t worry about that, I had them switch out all the diamonds for fakes. It only cost about a dollar seventy-five after that.”

“Silly,” I said, punching him lightly in the arm.

“Ow. I see you’ve picked up some bad habits while I’ve been away,” he said, smiling.

“I’m serious. It’s too much. You shouldn’t have.”

“Should or shouldn’t is not a credo I want to live my life by,” he said, lifting the necklace and handing the box to Cordelia. He pivoted behind me and clasped the necklace around my neck. “I bought them for you, because I wanted to. Because I care for you, and you liked them, and because I wanted to see them on you. That is all the reason I need.” He walked back around to face me.

“So let’s not bother with the shoulds and shouldn’ts, alright? It’s dull. And we are certainly not.” He walked over to Cordelia and returned to me with the bracelet, turning my hand over in his, to clasp the link of iolite and diamonds around my wrist. “You,” he said, lifting my hand for a kiss, “bewitch me, inamorata.”

His eyes locked with mine and I saw the layers of meaning he’d poured into the word.

Inamorata. Woman with whom he was in love.

I smiled at him, my best “I-know-what-you’re-thinking-and-boy-are-we-ever-on-the-same-page-buster” smile.

“Alright,” I said. “Give me the earrings.”

“With pleasure.”

D
r. Roger Whitcombe
, Dean of Wagner University, lived at the end of an impossibly long driveway in a gated community of super-sized mansions. The house sat on top of a hill, every window ablaze, the tiny shadows of arriving guests winking in the distance. A valet greeted us on arrival, taking Tom’s keys and ushering us to the door. The house was over-warm, the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg thick in the air, and every surface was dripping with Christmas decor, as if the Pottery Barn holiday catalog had upchucked all over the walls. It was in-your-face Christmas, but it was charming. We were met at the entrance by an attendant who took our coats and checked them in an open closet larger than a two-car garage.

“Oh wait,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket to retrieve something before the attendant could take it away. “Thanks.”

“What do you have there?” Tom asked.

I trapped my clutch purse under my arm and shook out the square of fabric in my hand. “Just a little something Cordelia whipped up this afternoon,” I said, smoothing the fabric as I folded it. “My dress was originally a little bit longer. Cordelia had to alter it because there was some damage to the bottom of the skirt. But apparently she had some fabric left over. So this afternoon, she made you this.” I held up the neatly creased square and tucked it into the breast pocket of Tom’s jacket.

He glanced down at his chest and smiled. “Marking your territory?”

“Definitely.”

“Good,” he said. Taking my hand, he kissed my knuckles and slipped my arm through his. “Shall we?”

We headed towards the party. A large archway with several steps down, seemed to signal that most of the activity was just beyond. Tom stopped short at the first step and pulled me to the side.

“Something occurs to me,” he said, frowning. “You’ll be asked what you do for a living. It’s nearly the first question out of anyone’s mouth at these sorts of things. What do you plan to say?”

“O-oh,” I stuttered. “I hadn’t thought about it. What do you want me to say?”

“That’s up to you.”

“They’ll ask how we met, too,” I reminded him. “We toyed with the idea of honesty, but now I’m not so sure how I feel about that.”

“Alright.”

“Well, it’s just not anyone’s business, is it?”

“No, but it’s a natural component of polite party conversation.”

“True.”

“So what do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “I have no idea. Let’s just wing it and see what comes out of my mouth.”

“Okay, then,” he said, smiling. “Better get a drink first, to steel my nerves. I think I spy the punch bowl. Come on.”

We skipped down the stairs into the party, ducking our heads as we weaved through the fringes of the crowd to the buffet display. At the far corner of the room a trio of musicians accompanied a female singer in a kicky jazz cover of “Deck the Halls” as half a dozen couples danced badly to the tune. The room was crowded, throngs of people clustered in shifting packs full of lawyers and authors, academics and politicians. I spied a few teachers from the university, but no one I’d ever had a class with.

“Look, food,” Tom whispered excitedly.

“Thank god, I’m starved.” I picked up a plate and loaded it with hors d'oeuvres for the both of us, then traded it to Tom when he handed me a cup of warm Christmas punch. “Yum,” I said, taking a sip. “What’s in this?”

“Tastes like fruit, red wine and a bit of rum,” he said.

“Yowza. Roger’s wife sure knows how to throw a shin-dig.”

“Oh that’s so nice to hear.” A feminine voice lilted behind me as Tom raised an eyebrow and looked over my shoulder.

And I’ll bet Julie’s behind me
, I thought. Well, at least I was complimenting her.

“Julie!” he said, setting down his plate to embrace her.

“Tom, I’m so glad you came. And I’d love to meet your date. I adore her already, she has excellent taste.”

“Likewise, everything’s beautiful,” I said, setting down my drink to shake her hand. “Jane Claremont, thank you for having me.”

“Julie Whitcombe, thank you for coming,” she said, clasping my hand warmly in both of hers. She was a statuesque woman with sparkling green eyes, and a sleek sterling silver bob. She wore a floor-length gown in chrysanthemum red, with lipstick to match.

“Roger will be so glad to see you, Tom.” She leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “He finds most of these people terribly dull.”

I laughed politely at her joke, privately wondering how boring these people had to be if Roger “let me educate you on the finer points of golf course grass” Whitcombe found them bland.

“You two mingle,” she said, shooing us. “Have fun. And Tom, I expect to see you on that dance floor with your date later.”

“Yes ma’am,” Tom said, nodding in acknowledgement. “Shall we?” He offered his arm, and together we strode into the room.

“
A
nd what do you do
?” the woman asked. I’d already forgotten her name. We stood by the fireplace, a circle of people of varying heights, weights, ages and ethnicities, the only common denominator among them the size of their bank accounts. This crowd was definitely what the media liked to label the liberal-elite. Democrats with doctorates. I didn’t doubt that on paper our politics were probably right in line. But there was a pretty big cultural gap between being a professor of women’s studies at a liberal arts college and being a stripper. Not necessarily in my mind, but in theirs. Somehow I didn’t think the revelation of my true profession would go over well in this crowd.

“I’m a distributor,” I said, poking up a cocktail sausage from Tom’s plate with a toothpick, “of gourmet foods. Artisan cheeses, beers and wines from small breweries and vineyards.” I glanced over at Tom and saw him staring at me, his expression half admiration, half terror. I leaned into him slightly, a gesture I hoped he understood to mean “Relax, I’ve got this.” I kept talking. “Jams and jellies. Charcuterie from local butchers, that sort of thing.” I popped the sausage in my mouth and chewed. It wasn’t really a lie when I thought about it. I’d been supplying Sasha for years with sausage and cheese, procured on my frequent trips to my mom’s house.

“Oh, how wonderful,” the woman cooed.

“She also makes,” Tom piped up and I whipped my head around, eyeing him suspiciously, “these, really amazing muffins, just scrumptious.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard, and tried to choke back my laughter. “I’m glad you like them,” I said.

“Oh I do. So soft and flavorful.” He popped a tiny hors d'oeuvre in his mouth and chewed. “I prefer them cream-filled, though,” he said, talking with his mouth full.

“I’ll just bet,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. He was trying to rattle me.
No chance, buddy.
“If I recall, you liked the strawberry ones best. Pink and hot, spanking fresh, just out of the oven.”

“And cream filled,” he said again, nodding at me vigorously.

The circle of people had gone quiet, and I could see them glancing and shrugging at each other out of the corner of my eye.

“So you’re also a baker then, or a pastry chef?” asked the woman. “You cook?”

“Just breakfast,” Tom answered for me. “Excuse us.” He took my arm by the elbow and steered us away. “I spy a colleague.”

“You do not spy a colleague,” I hissed at him as we deserted the circle.

“No, but they were about to spy my hard-on if we didn’t shut that down immediately.” He tossed our empty plate into a trashcan and dragged me into a corner behind a large potted plant, yanking me against his hips, his lips nuzzling at my neck. “I wasn’t embellishing, you know. You are soft and flavorful.” The tip of his tongue darted out to lick at the hollow of my neck, and I moaned, just a little too loud. “I can’t wait to get to that muffin later,” he said with a growl, his hand smoothing over my backside to grope my ass.

“Cream-filled,” I said, giggling. “God, this is fun. Let’s get more punch.”

He took my hand, skirting us around a knot of people, our sights on the punch bowl across the room.

“Tom!”

“Damn,” Tom cursed under his breath, before forcing a smile and turning to the woman who had caught us. “Marcie. I didn’t see you there.”

“Come join us,” said Marcie, beckoning us into another circle. “I was just telling the funniest story about my neighbor.”

I recognized Marcie from the university. I knew her as Professor Atherton, head of the political sciences department, although our paths had never crossed formally before tonight. I gritted my teeth, trying to maintain a casual smile, as I watched Marcie’s hand slither over Tom’s shoulder and down to his forearm, her glossy pointed manicure digging into the fabric of his tux. I did not like this lady, not one bit.

Our paths are gonna cross informally in about twenty seconds if you don’t get your hands off my man,
I thought.

“Right, well, just for a moment,” Tom said.

“So, anyway.” Marcie turned back to the crowd, the contents of her punch cup sloshing dangerously as she gesticulated. “I told him I teach politics, I don’t advise politicians, much less local ones, but he was insistent so I humored him. Turns out he was seeing a woman that was definitely what we would call a liability.”

“Oh?” Another circle-dweller prompted.

“Yes, and when I say liability I really, really mean it. This woman owns that strip club in town. Oh, what is it called?” she said, snapping her fingers. “Rain, or Storms or—”

“Clouds,” Tom said. Wrapping an arm around my waist, he pulled me against him, his fingers squeezing gently.

“Oh listen to you, naughty boy! Yes, that’s the name. Anyway, I couldn’t believe it. I mean, what was he thinking? Of course he can’t be known to be dating someone like that if he’s going to run for office.”

“Someone like what?” The words were out of my mouth before my head had a chance to check them.

“Well, someone so déclassé, of course. I mean, running a strip club. It’s obscene,” she said. Giggling into her cup as if the word obscene was suddenly very funny, she slurped loudly.

“It’s legal,” I said, my blood pressure rising.

“It is,” Tom said, nodding. “And I believe the preferred term is gentleman’s club.”

“Oh!” Marcie exclaimed. Her hand on Tom’s arm again, she leaned into him, her breasts brushing against his bicep. “You are so bad. Listen to you, dropping all the droll little comments.”

Is this bitch for real? Droll? Who the fuck says “droll”?

“Not trying to be funny,” Tom said, shrugging her gently off of his arm. “Just factual.”

“Well, you are,” Marcie said, bobbing her head at him, her tone a little too precious, like she was speaking to a toddler. “You are very factual and very helpful and very cute. All dressed up in your tux.” She pouted at him.

She’s drunk,
I thought with a mixture of disgust and relief.

“You’re a gentleman,” she continued. “Just a pretty, pretty English professor. All pretty with your books and your words. As if you’d ever go to a place like that.”

“Like what?” asked Tom.

“The whore place.” She laughed. “The place for all the dirty whores.”

Her hand was on his arm again, and I saw red. I inhaled sharply and Tom’s arm tightened around my waist.
Drunk or not, I’m gonna cut a bitch. I hope Cordelia knows how to get blood out of vintage silk.

“Now just a minute, Marcie—” Tom started to correct her.

“W-what do you do?” someone in the circle stuttered loudly, cutting Tom off. I didn’t realize it was directed at me until I felt Tom elbow me, I’d been too busy trying to set Marcie on fire with the power of my mind.

I looked around the group, scanning them, sizing them up. Faces were flushed, ties a bit askew, bellies bloated from an overabundance of food and merriment. Chances were no one would accurately remember much of this conversation in the morning. Why not have a bit of fun?

“I’m one of the dirty whores,” I said, looking Marcie straight in the eye. “I work at Clouds. I’m a stripper.”

“What?” she said dumbly, her mouth falling slack.

I leaned across Tom’s chest, folded my hand over hers and spoke slowly, taking care to annunciate clearly. “I take my clothes off for money. I let strange men look at my naked body, for money.”

There was a lull in the music, and the conversations around us seemed to quiet a little. It wasn’t one of those room-shocking moments, but it sure felt like it in the atmosphere of our small circle. I surveyed the group again, and smirked a little at the damage. Everyone was speechless, brushing invisible lint off their lapels or furiously stirring their cups of punch. Marcie looked as if she might be in danger of sobering up any second. She was definitely eyeing me with extreme displeasure. She snatched her hand out from under mine and stumbled back. At least she wasn’t touching Tom anymore.

“Wait! You’re having us on!” said a portly guy with a bad comb-over. “I just heard you tell Tenley you’re an importer or exporter or something. What was it?” he said, turning to his companion.

“Something about cheese, I thought,” she said.

“No, she’s a baker,” said a lady that was walking by our group, elbowing her way in to proclaim herself. “She bakes muffins.”

There was much discussion at this point. Lots of hand waving and arguing. A group of academics and white collars far above my pay grade spent several frantic moments trying to figure me out. Tom pressed his lips to my ear and kissed me, before whispering, “I’m so glad I brought my own entertainment.”

“Sorry,” I said, smirking at him sheepishly.

“Don’t be, she deserved it.”

“Wait. Wait. Wait,” said Marcie loudly, weaving a little in her high heels. “I don’t understand. Is she a whore or not?”

Well, that shut them up.

The entire circle stared at Marcie, mouths agape. Comb-over’s cup of punch went limp, its contents piddling on the hardwood floor like he’d just peed his pants.

“Marcie!” Julie’s musical voice sounded like the bells of a church. “I’m so glad you could come this evening. Roger told me about the book. I was sorry to hear your publisher decided to pass. Will you have to give back the advance or—”