A Bride To Honor

“Take your time,” she said, getting to her own feet as the waiter returned, ostensibly for the table and folding chairs. “I’ll be in the sewing room. Show him in, please, Tony, when he’s ready.”

Tony twitched his glued-on mustache and quickly doffed his bowler. Turning on his heel, he waddled away, feet aimed in opposite directions. Paul followed, the stiffness of his manner implying anger. Cassidy wondered at that, but then it really wasn’t any of her business. Her business was costumes, and she’d best remember it. Sighing, she went off to the sewing room and began pinning her designs onto the bulletin board there for that purpose. Paul joined her in a surprisingly brief time, apparently unruffled.

He made no explanation about the call, but then she expected none. Instead, he looked around thoroughly and then approached the bulletin board, his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the drawings intently, his head turning this way and that. Once in a while he made an inquisitive sound. Otherwise, he betrayed nothing of his thoughts. After some time, he stepped back and looked at her.

“Do you have a favorite?”

The question surprised her. “Er, yes, actually I do. This one.” She pointed to the center design. He stepped forward once more and studied that particular drawing. Then he nodded and stepped back again.

“When can we begin?”

“Begin?”

“Yes, I, um, assume fittings will be required.”

“Of course, but—”

She had been about to say only one or two. He interrupted with an upraised hand. “Will Saturday work for you then, or would you rather not do it on the weekend? I’ll understand, of course. I simply thought... That is, Saturday would be good for me.”

She usually worked half days in the shop Saturdays—mornings. For some reason she said, “Saturday afternoon?”

He smiled, beamed, actually. “Excellent. Would you like to do lunch again?”

“Oh, no!” she said quickly, thinking of the expense he’d gone to. “I mean, that won’t be necessary.” He seemed a bit crestfallen, so she added, “We could have coffee here, though, if you like.”

He smiled again. “All right, I’ll see to it.”

“No, no, let me,” she insisted. “I-it’s just coffee, after all.”

“All right,” he said. “Will three be suitable?”

“Three is fine,” she told him, completely forgetting that she’d promised her mother a visit.

“Three then.” He pointed at the design upon which they’d settled. “Good work. Thank you. I know it’s an imposition for you at this busy time.”

She shook her head. “I’m happy to do it.”

He stepped close, one eyebrow arching, gaze intent on hers, saying conspiratorially, “Perhaps you ought to inform young Charlie then. He seems to think you’re much too busy to be indulging in luncheons and extra work just now.”

Cassidy gasped. Oh, that scamp! She closed her eyes in embarrassment and said shakily, “Young Charlie should learn to mind his own business.” She would have to talk to Tony, again, not that it would do much good.

Paul chuckled. “I’d say he has a crush on you.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes, muttering, “I should crush him.”

“Now, now,” Paul chided gently, his hand curled beneath her chin, tilting it slightly. “A boy’s ego is a tender thing.”

Cassidy burst out laughing. Only a man such as Paul Spencer could so adeptly put the matter into perspective. A boy, indeed, especially when compared with the man standing before her. “Maybe a good spanking, then.”

Those blue-gray eyes darkened to the color of smoke. “Let’s not encourage him,” he said huskily, and again Cassidy sensed that he wanted to kiss her. For a moment she could neither breathe nor move, but then it passed, and he stepped away, his smile gone wry and tight, his hand falling to his side. “I have to go,” he said.

She smiled to cover her disappointment. “You’ll have to press the buzzer on Saturday. I lock the doors at noon.”

“We’ll be alone then?”

She had to swallow before she could answer. “Yes, alone.” To her relief, her voice sounded nearly normal.

He smiled, softly this time, privately. “Saturday, then.”

“Saturday.”

She found herself smiling when he’d gone. She might be just a costumer, but he liked her, William Penno’s sister or no, and it was terribly mutual. All too mutual. And it could come to nothing. He was as good as engaged to be married. Her smile faded to wistfulness. Then it occurred to her that she should have something ready for him to try on when Saturday came around—and she hadn’t taken a single measurement! Well, she’d just have to do it on Saturday, which meant this thing was going to require a bit longer than it might have—and she didn’t really mind, despite her full schedule. It was foolish, she knew. But when, she thought with a sigh, had she ever done the sensible thing? She should start, she knew, and she would...as soon as Paul Spencer was out of her life, which he would be all too soon.

The blustery, wet day was enough reason to stay indoors and cancel previous commitments, but Paul reminded himself that this was important. He told himself sternly it wasn’t just that he wanted to see her. All right, she was interesting—a costumer, for heaven’s sake!—and possessed of a quirky sense of humor. She was gentle, as well, and shy, almost painfully so at times, and pretty, in an unconscious, wholesome way that intrigued him. She seemed utterly without artifice, in itself a good joke, considering her occupation, which was what brought him out on a day like this—her occupation, that was.

Doggedly determined to keep this meeting brief, to the point and all business, he shook his hands free of his coat pockets and reached toward the buzzer. As if with a will of their own, however, his hands detoured to his head and smoothed back his dark hair. It had a tendency to wave and stick out in wet weather, and he was suddenly aware of an intense desire to look his best. When he realized what he was thinking, he burst out laughing. So much for “business”! He shook his head, wondering what it was about Cassidy Penno that made him feel like a boy with his first crush? His finger at last moved to ring the doorbell.

Several long moments went by before the shade in the window lifted and Cassidy Penno smiled out at him. The door opened, and she stepped back to let him in, quickly closing and locking the door again behind him.

. “Hello,” she said, reaching for the coat he was shrugging out of.

“Hi.” He handed it over and watched as she carried it to the coat tree, standing between the counter and the door. The overhead lights were off, and the cloudy illumination let in by the big front windows was soft and misty, picking up the golden highlights in her thick hair, which she wore twisted up in back with long tendrils left to frame her face. She looked warm and welcoming in a pale yellow sweater set worn with black, slim-fitting jeans and brown half boots. Paul felt a lurch in his chest, and at the sight of her pale pink lipstick, his mouth went dry. Who was he kidding? This woman drew him like a magnet.

The old rage filled him, useless, impotent, and she sensed it at once, her sweet face going slack and troubled. “Is something wrong?”

He forced a grim smile and shook his head. “No.” His hands were shaking and cold. Rubbing them together, he thought of the coffee she’d promised him, and his mood lightened slightly. “I could use a hot drink.”

She stepped back and swept him an elegant bow, one arm swinging out in invitation. “This way, good sir.”

He laughed at her antics, feeling warmed just by her manner. He followed her through the darkened shop into the sewing room, smiling at the fanciful decorations along the way. Her mind seemed to teem with ideas and visions, which she obviously translated into actuality. He realized suddenly that he envied her that.

She had set up a table for them in one corner of the room. It was draped with what looked like an old paisley shawl trimmed with gold fringe and accented with a bouquet of decoratively folded lace handkerchiefs and old, silver teaspoons. In addition to a ceramic pot suspended over the flame of a tiny candle, she had placed on the table a pair of antique-looking cups and saucers, mismatched dessert plates, a creamer, sugar bowl and an intricately cut-crystal platter with a selection of mouth-watering pastries. Not a thing on the table matched another, and yet it all worked together with charming originality. Obviously she had gone to some trouble to indulge her creative bent in his honor, and he felt unaccountably touched.

“This is lovely,” he said, lightly stroking the rim of one cup.

She had the grace to blush. “Thank you. The, um, coffee’s flavored. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” he said, surprised to find that it was so. Normally he hated the pretentiousness of flavored coffees, but nothing about this particular woman was pretentious in the least, just the opposite, in fact. He indicated the pot. “May I?”

“Of course. Help yourself.”

The aroma of amaretto seemed to fill the small room as he poured a steady stream of hot black coffee into one of the cups on the table. He moved the spout over the second cup and looked up in question. Smiling, she nodded, and he poured a cup for her.

“Take anything with that?”

“Just a touch of milk.”

He tilted the tiny milk pitcher over the cup and let a few drops trickle in, then stirred the brew to a rich brown before passing cup and saucer to her.