“Um… I really should. My responsibility,” Dusty stammered, wishing she could look away from his charming smile and the brightness of his golden-brown eyes.
Finally, she forced herself to unlock the front door and step into the crowded parlor-at least that’s what the first curator had named the front room. Originally, it had been the only room in the log cabin. A century of occupation had led to expansion up and out. The loft became a full second story within twenty years of construction, then multiple additions to the back and sides-also two stories signified growing prosperity. But the original log walls remained in the parlor. The restoration committee had stripped off the half-rotten paneling and wallpaper to reveal the sturdy logs when they moved the house before World War II.
“This is really interesting,” Haywood said stooping to examine the workings of a spinning wheel. “Can you work this?” he asked, straightening up.
“Not well. I know the principles, but I’ve never taken the time to really learn spinning or any of the needle crafts so popular and necessary in previous centuries.”
“Too bad. I find the process fascinating to watch. From a tangle of fiber comes the thread that makes a garment. Sort of like a spider spinning a web of silk.”
Something about his phrasing sounded odd, and oddly familiar at the same time.
“A spider spinning a web of silk,” he repeated.
“I presume you’ve come about tickets for the Masque Ball?” Dusty said.
“Tickets? Ms. Nelson told me I should fetch an official invitation.” A frown creased his brow.
“Apparently Phelma Jo doesn’t realize this is our largest fund-raiser of the year. We sell tickets to anyone who will buy them. Our email invitations are really just a reminder of the date of the Ball and that preorders help us pay for music, food, and advertising.”
“Oh. I’m sorry about the misunderstanding. How much are the tickets?” He pulled an oxblood leather checkbook out of his breast pocket.”
“Fifty dollars per couple,” she said flatly. As nice as this man looked, his tweed sport coat, that fit him beautifully, looked a bit dated and his shoes were worn and scuffed. He might not have enough money to pay for the tickets, and Phelma Jo wasn’t likely to reimburse him. Everyone in town knew that she collected money and property, rarely parting with it; a legacy from her childhood.
And now that she had money, she didn’t fix her rabbity overbite. Keeping her teeth flawed reminded one and all of how she’d been mistreated as a child and why the world owed her. What they owed her, Dusty could never figure out, just that she and Dick were expected to feel less than human because their parents could afford braces for both of them. And they had two parents.
No one had ever heard what happened to Phelma Jo’s father. Her mother had moved to town, a single, teenaged mother, when still pregnant with Phelma Jo.
“Any single tickets available?” Haywood asked, his smile returning and aimed right at Dusty.
“Um. Not usually. Surely you can come up with a date for the evening.”
“I’m new in town. Don’t know many people outside the office. I suppose you’ve had a date booked up for months.”
“Ah, not really. I’m usually so busy organizing I don’t think about a date.”
His smile blazed brighter. “Good, then I’ll take three couples’ tickets and you can be my date. And you can be my date. That is if you want to go with me?” His smile fell just a bit.
“I… we don’t know each other…” Dusty’s face flamed, and the pressure in her chest squeezed the breath out of her. She couldn’t look at him. And she couldn’t look away.
His eyes captured her gaze. She thought she saw sparkles around the edges of him.
“Miss Carrick, would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tonight? That new Greek place on Main Street looks interesting, and I hate dining alone. We can get to know each other better before the Ball.”
“That would be nice.” Did she honestly say that? Her heart beat so loudly she couldn’t hear her own thoughts, let alone her words.
Could this be the date that would really work because she’d accepted it herself without someone arranging it for her?
“Pick you up at six thirty?” He tilted his head so that a stray shaft of sunlight struck his hair and turned it to molten gold.
“Six thirty is good. Meet me here?”
“You’re reluctant to tell me where you live.”
“Um… I get off at six thirty.” Finally, she broke eye contact and stared at her shoes. The dried water droplets marring the black polish appeared to fascinate her.
He lifted her chin with a finger and smiled. The entire room seemed brighter, full of life and color. “Six thirty,” he whispered, almost conspiratorially.
“Come into the office, and I’ll get you those tickets.” Reluctantly, she turned away to lead him through the maze of rooms to the last addition on the house.
“Here,” she handed him the three tickets a few moments later. The close confines of Joe’s office suddenly felt too small and private. Airless.
Haywood curled his fingers around her hand instead of taking the three heavy card stock tickets with a unique art deco logo and embossed and gilded printing; collectors’ items in themselves.
“I look forward to tonight,” he whispered.
The sound of voices and footsteps in the front room startled Dusty away from his mesmerizing eyes.
“I’ll see you out front at six thirty,” she replied, pressing her behind into the sharp edge of the desk.
“Yes. You got the check?”
She nodded, holding up the flimsy paper.
“Good. Who are those people anyway? Important, I’m guessing.”
“Grant committee. We desperately need a heat pump to keep the artifacts at a constant temperature and humidity.”
“Oh. Well, then. I guess I’d best get out of your way. Ms. Nelson is expecting me back at the office.”
“Don’t let her work you too hard. It’s Saturday.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t.” He paused a moment, gazing into the near distance at something only he could see. “I won’t. I know when she’s trying to take advantage of my good humor.” He backed out of the room, blowing her a kiss at the last moment.
Eleven
THISTLE GRABBED A PAPER CUP full of water off one of the long tables set up along the street side of the park. She downed it in one gulp and immediately felt better. She reached for a second cup.
“Hey, those are for the parade participants,” an older woman with a bad perm in her black-and-gray hair yelled from the other end of the table.
Thistle wandered through the increasing bustle and chaos of the parade preparations toward the museum. Maybe Dusty would have more water. Halfway to the deep porch, she heard the distinctive wail of a frightened child. She followed her instincts to befriend the little one and push away the fears. That’s all children needed at times like these, a friend to remind them they weren’t alone.
She halted when she spotted Joe Newberry crouching in front of his two daughters. He’d shed his suit jacket and tie. Other than that, he looked entirely too modern for the costumes worn by most of the parade participants-which seemed to be most of the town. What was the point of a parade if there was no one left to watch?
Both girls wore long dresses with cloth bonnets, like most of the women gathering around the assembly of horse-drawn wagons, and flatbed trucks, all decorated and signed with various organizations.
“Now, girls, we talked about this. Mrs. Ledbetter, the story lady from the library, is going to walk with you in the parade. You’ll be right beside the horses pulling the covered wagon. You like horses.”
Thistle glanced back at the huge brown beasts flicking their ears in curiosity and apprehension at the noise, the heat, and the bugs-actually a large swarm of yellow Pixies. Must be Dandelions. She’d be scared of those horses, too, with their huge stamping feet and long snapping teeth. The flowers decorating their collars and harness didn’t make them any less scary.