Page 20 of Silver Lining
"Will you say something, for God's sake? I'm a nervous mess. Do I look proper enough to eat supper in a hotel dining room?"
He made a twirling motion with his forefinger. "Turn around," he ordered in a strangely husky voice.
She rolled her eyes, then slowly turned for his inspection. Just as he'd suspected. The seat of the dress had begun to shine and show wear, and the poof looping over the bustle was a slightly different color, suggesting it had been replaced at some point.
"Damn it, Low Down! You bought seconds after I told you not to!"
"The important thing about that conversation was not what I bought, but who paid." Her wedding ring caught the lamplight when she smoothed a hand along the draped material at her waist. "This is a perfectly good dress, hardly warm at all. There was only one small tear under the arm, and I fixed that.
Now tell me the truth. Can I be seen in public without people laughing at us?"
This was the woman who continued to swear that she didn't care what people thought of her, Max thought, suppressing a sigh. But she'd been truthful when she warned him that she wouldn't obey.
"You'll be fine," he said, deciding not to make an issue out of buying seconds. The hour was too late to send her out on another shopping expedition.
"Thank God!" The air ran out of her as if she'd been holding her breath. "I have another dress in case you didn't approve of this one, but it would have taken forever to change. You can't imagine the contortions required to put together a rig like this." Her hands fluttered up in helpless exasperation. "I thought I never would figure out this bustle contraption. Why fashion wants women to look like they have a butt the size of a wagon, I don't know, but I can tell you it sure feels strange. And a corset!" Letting her head fall backward, she blinked at the ceiling. "No person can wrench their arms around to lace it up by themselves. You have to twist the thing around front, lace and tie it, then twist it back around, and then you get pinched spots and you can hardly breathe. And I'll tell you something else I learned. You better put your stockings on first because you sure can't bend over while you're wearing a corset, lest ways not this one, so you have it take it off, put on your stockings and start all over."
No woman, not even Gilly, had ever mentioned a corset or stockings in his presence. And he could sooner imagine the women of his acquaintance doing somersaults through the lobby of Howard Houser's bank than he could imagine them commenting about butts as big as wagons.
Max cleared his throat and removed his gloves from his pocket. "If you'd like to fetch a shawl, gloves, and your bag, we'll go down to dinner. You did buy a shawl, gloves, and a bag?"
"I have two shawls. This is the evening one." She lifted a length of fringed paisley from the back of a chair and whirled it around her shoulders like a cape. Grace was not her strong suit. "And this is my evening purse," she said, showing him a drawstring bag that made a light clinking sound when she lifted it.
He couldn't imagine what she would carry that might clink. "If I hold it facing this way, no one will notice that some of the beadwork is missing." She seemed proud of this point.
"Maybe we should sit down and have a drink before we go downstairs." Right now he wanted a whiskey.
Horror widened her eyes. "No! We can't sit on those chairs." Color rose in her cheeks. "They're just to look at." When he lifted a baffled eyebrow, she hurried past him on the way to the door, trailing the scent of soap and kerosene. "What if we accidentally left a smudge or a scratch or spilled something, and someone discovered it and threw us out of here?" Turning, she leveled a hard warning look at him. "This is the only time I'm ever going to stay in a place like this, and I don't want to ruin it by getting thrown out.
So don't sit on those chairs!"
She disappeared into the corridor, wobbling a little on what he assumed were nearly new high-heeled shoes.
Max rested his forehead in his hand for a moment, then went after her, catching up at the landing.
"Maybe I better take your arm again," she muttered, eyeing the staircase. "If I fall down the stairs," she added in a low dry voice, "and end up sprawled at the bottom in front of all those swells, I'm going to pretend that I'm dead. You tell someone to haul me off to the nearest boardinghouse, then go have your supper."
If someone had told him this morning that he'd find something to laugh about today, he would not have believed it.
She glared at him, then slowly a smile appeared. "That's the first time I've heard you laugh."
When he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him, it was also the first time he had touched her. Beneath the soft paisley shawl, she was as solid as granite.
"Listen to me," he said, looking into her eyes. "You're not going to fall down the stairs. And no one is going to pay any attention to us. No one is going to throw us out of the hotel. Stop worrying." He recalled her comment that she'd never stay in a place like this again. Very likely she was correct. "Enjoy the evening."
"I don't belong here," she said, sliding her eyes away from his. "If Mrs. Olson—the woman who adopted me—if she could see me now, she'd tell you so."
"Just for tonight, pretend that you do." He extended his arm, and she gripped it with surprising strength.
"Ready?" She nodded, lifted her skirts, and they slowly descended. Low Down kept her gaze on the floor until they reached the dining room, then she raised her head for a quick look around and he felt her draw a deep breath.
"It's so beautiful! Well, take a look at that!" she whispered, leaning close to him. "There's the man in the green uniform!"
"No," Max said, careful to keep any hint of amusement out of his voice, "that is the maître d'. He'll seat us."
When the maître d' held her chair for her, she looked at Max with wide, amazed eyes, then, when he draped a napkin across her lap, she clapped a hand over her mouth and laughter sparkled in her gaze.
"Would you care for a drink before dinner, sir?"
