Page 13 of The Matchmaker's Melody
No, as her partner for the gala, Gordon would do just fine. And he cleaned up nicely. He usually wore rather boring, casual clothes such as a simple shirt with chinos or a pullover with jeans, but when he tamed his hair and put on a suit or tux, as he did for choir concerts, he was more than acceptable. Handsome, even, although she’d never admit that to him. Some men always seemed awkward in suits, like they didn’t know how to move in them, or were worried that the tie would strangle them, but Gordon had grown up needing to dress smart often enough that he wore formal clothing with ease. Just as she, Emma, knew how to rock a cocktail dress and too-high heels.
Speaking of which, with the gala coming up soon, it was time to go shopping. If she was going to turn heads, she needed to do it with every ounce of style she could muster.
Emma picked up her phone and sent a text message to the one person she wanted with her as she sought the perfect outfit.
Taylor, it’s gala time. We’re going shopping!
* * *
Gordon eyed the calendar.Tonight was the symphony gala. It was still early December, just three weeks until Christmas. The choir’s first concert was the following weekend, but tonight their own music was to be forgotten, in favour of whatever treats the symphony’s fundraising committee had in store for them.
Gordon usually dreaded these events, but tonight he was happy to attend. A friend who knew someone on the symphony’s board of directors had dropped a note in his ear that members of the orchestra would perform live chamber music for entertainment, which was a reason to go all on its own. The hotel where the function was taking place also boasted a world-class kitchen, and unlike some weddings he had attended, where the food was barely edible, he knew he would be treated to a first-rate meal along with stellar music.
And Emma.
He was still treading carefully around her, although she seemed to have forgotten their arguments over Phil and Jean-François. When their parents had informed them they were to take the company’s seats that night, she’d actually picked up the phone to call him, and had announced the news with a squeal. Perhaps it was time to let their disagreement lie and mend their previous easy relationship.
It was with these charitable thoughts in mind that he arrived in front of the Massey family’s house, where Emma had a private apartment above the garage. He asked the taxi driver to wait, and walked up to the door at the side of the structure to ring the bell.
“I’ll be a minute,” Emma called from the top of the staircase leading upwards to her flat. “Come up.”
The taxi fare was going on the company’s tab, and with the cost of the gala tickets in mind, another few dollars wouldn’t make any difference, so he shrugged and climbed the stairs.
He had never been invited up here before. He had spent a lot of time in the main house, of course, but not here. He vaguely recalled the discussions a few years ago—three or four—when Emma was debating staying at home to save money or moving out to be independent. This apartment, he recalled, was the compromise. The space had been a granny flat even when he was a kid, but it had housed the family’s unneeded belongings at the time, instead of a superannuated relation. They’d cleared it out about ten years ago, and Isobel had lived there while at university, and then, after her, Emma had moved in and redone the place to her own tastes.
He stood by the open door and peered around with interest.
It was, in many ways, a reflection of its occupant, chic and trendy, on point with current styles, but with an indefinable layer of class. It screamed, “Everyone should aspire to this.” And it was very nice.
The living room walls were white, with gauzy white curtains framing the windows, while a multi-globed light fixture hung from the centre of the ceiling. Pale-hued paintings adorned the walls, and a scattering of pastel peach and cream-upholstered furniture provided space for a half dozen people to sit in some comfort around a light wood coffee table. Heaven help the person who spilled a glass of red wine. The only bits of vibrant colour came from several flourishing plants that decorated a small table by the window, and a jar of fresh blooms on the small sideboard.
She loved flowers. Gordon knew this, and had come prepared. She couldn’t take them with her tonight, but she could put them in a vase to enjoy later. Lilies, tulips, baby’s breath, and delphiniums. No roses. He’d had to fight that inclination, but she was allergic to them, so the lilies would have to do. He cradled the bouquet in his arm as he waited.
“I’m nearly ready,” she called from through a doorway, and then stepped out into the light-infused living room. And everything changed forever.
Gordon’s heart stopped.
He had known her almost his entire life. He had watched her grow up—from spoiled child, to know-it-all teenager, to confident (and still spoiled) young woman. He should feel about her as one did for a sister. And yet, as she slid into the room, every rational thought vanished, and the world shifted under his feet. Those brotherly feelings he should have had dissipated into smoke, to be replaced by something very different.
Who was this creature? Had he never seen her before? How had he been so blind?
She was beautiful.
Her red dress stunned with a neckline that stretched from shoulder to shoulder and dipped into a gentle vee in the centre, just enough to hint at some generous cleavage, not too much to be brazen. Tracing her figure past her slim waist and down to her hips, the confection fell in a crimson cascade to the floor. An elaborate necklace caught the light, as did matching drop earrings that were shown to best advantage by her elegant hairdo, swept into a low chignon with a few wisps softening the severity of the style about her face. In contrast to the red gown and clear gemstones, her eyes shone blue like sapphires, emphasised by subtle makeup applied with a deft hand. She smiled with perfect lips in a shade he could not identify, and the world stopped spinning.
Oh heavens. This was impossible. It was madness. It was as if a switch had been flicked, or a curtain raised, and all at once, there was Emma, but cast in a different light. This wasn’t the Emma of his childhood, but the Emma of his future, and all manner of very inappropriate thoughts rushed through his brain… and through his body.
He gaped at her for an age… or was it just a moment? She seemed not to notice his dumbfoundedness, but twirled around instead—a girl showing off her frock.
“Do you like it?”
The words jolted him back to this planet.
He tried to pick his jaw up off the floor and managed to form coherent syllables. “It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
He shouldn’t have said that, but the words came without his volition. If she knew what she was doing to him, she wouldn’t have needed to ask.
Instead, she stepped back to assess him. “You look very smart, too. I always think a man is handsomest in a dinner jacket. We’ll look just fine together. Ooh, flowers. Thanks. And no roses. You’re good to remember. I’ll put them in water, and then I’ll get my coat.”
