Free Baroque and Desperate by Tamar Myers

that do without a gown?” I wailed.
    â€œBut that will be the gown, don’t you see? It has plenty of lace and splits at the side. Who’s to know it’s not a designer gown? You don’t mind showing a little shoulder, do you?”
    â€œYou’re kidding, aren’t you?”
    She shook her head so vigorously, the stringy blond hair was a blur. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
    â€œOh, God!”
    â€œOf course, I could tell everyone that you’re sick.”
    Thank God I had taken the time to shave that morning. And I don’t mean my shoulders.
    â€œI’m all yours,” I said ruefully. “Deck me out and make me beautiful.”
    Trust me, it didn’t look as bad it sounds. Neither of us had a belt that fit around my upper thorax—hers was too big, mine too small—but one of the velvet drape tiebacks fit the bill perfectly. So what if it was scarlet? It added a jaunty splash of color, and the tassel, which we could not remove, we managed to position directly between my bosom.
    All right. So I didn’t look like a million dollars. I looked like a Kmart half slip and a drapery tieback. But my shoes were black, and if your shoes match your outfit—or so Mama says—you can get away with just about anything. Not that Mamawould be caught dead with fewer than three crinolines and her ubiquitous pearls.
    While I wasn’t expecting a standing ovation when I swept into the salon, I was at least expecting a curious glance. But even my C.J. creation could not account for the frozen faces of the Burton-Latham clan.

6
    â€œA w, come on,” I wailed, “it isn’t that bad.”
    â€œIt’s pretty awful,” Tradd said, grabbing my elbow and steering me aside.
    â€œOkay, so the tassel is a bit much, but—”
    â€œAbby, what the hell are you talking about?”
    â€œMy dress, of course. Look, I didn’t—”
    â€œYour dress is fine.”
    â€œ What ?”
    â€œAll right, it’s more than fine. You’re a knockout in it.”
    I let that percolate for a minute. “Then what’s so awful?”
    â€œGrandmother’s little surprise, that’s what.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œSorry, sworn to secrecy. Hey, you want something to drink?”
    â€œGot a Bailey’s?” Okay, so maybe Irish cream whiskey is more of an after-dinner drink, than a cocktail, but it is a favorite of mine, and what was there to lose? How any more déclassé can one get than to wear a friend’s half slip to dinner?
    The second Tradd left to get my drink, Sally floated over in a peach chiffon number. “Love yourdress, dear. Where did you get it, Bergdorf’s in Atlanta?”
    â€œThe Cox collection in Charlotte.”
    The blue-gray peepers appraised me again. “It’s really exquisite. Such understatement in design. Perhaps I saw one like it on a runway in Milan. It looks somehow familiar, you know?”
    â€œDoes it?” I twisted my torso just enough to set the tassel in motion. “Well, I assure you, it’s one of a kind. Cox is a personal friend, and made the gown just for me.”
    She nodded. “I hope you won’t be offended, dear, but I must have one just like it for the Art Guild dinner next month. Do you suppose that’s possible?”
    â€œI guarantee it. Say, why was everybody looking so grim when I walked in?”
    Tradd’s arm shot through the space between Sally and me, and the Bailey’s materialized under my nose.
    â€œI got it on the rocks,” he said. “You didn’t specify.”
    â€œRocks are preferred. Thanks.” I glanced around, but Sally had slipped behind me and was engaged in conversation with C.J. If ever my pal were to come down with a case of lockjaw, would that it be then. I mean, considering all the times she’d stuck her foot in her mouth, she was bound to have scratched her gums on