That Night on Thistle Lane. Carla Neggers
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be more content than she was right now.
Ava looked out the window over the sink at the backyard flower garden, dominated now, in mid-August, by hollyhocks that ranged from soft white through three shades of pink to deep maroon. “You’re not going to the ball, are you, Phoebe?”
Phoebe changed her mind and decided to pour the wine now. She grabbed the pinot grigio out of the refrigerator and set it on the counter. “No, I’m not going,” she said matter-of-factly as she rummaged in the utensil drawer for a corkscrew. “Do you both want wine?”
Ruby plopped her tote bag onto a chair at the table. “Phoebe, you know you’d have a great time. You never go anywhere—”
“I have so much to do here. I’m taking vacation days before the end of the summer. I’ll go someplace then.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Someplace.” Phoebe held up a glass. “Wine?”
“Sure,” Ruby said with a sigh. “Just don’t think I’ve given up.”
“Me, either,” Ava said. “You should go to this ball tomorrow, Phoebe. Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see the masks Ruby and I made. Anyway, wine for me, too. I’ll get our goodies out of the car.”
“Hang on, I’ll help.” Ruby withdrew a square of golden-colored soap from her tote bag and tossed it to Phoebe. “Check it out while we’re setting up. It’s a new soap Mom, Olivia and Maggie are trying out. Mom wants your opinion.”
Olivia and Maggie were experimenting with making their own artisan goat’s milk soaps to sell at The Farm at Carriage Hill. If it worked, Elly O’Dunn’s goats could go from being an expensive and impractical hobby to earning their own keep. Phoebe was happy to do what she could to help and knew Ava and Ruby were, too, although Ava in particular wasn’t crazy about their mother’s goats—especially when she had to clean up after them. They all appreciated the mildness and purity of the soaps.
Phoebe took in the gentle lavender scent of the bar Ruby had tossed her. “It really is lovely, isn’t it?”
“Olivia’s already designed the labels,” Ruby said. “Dreams do come true, Phoebe. Olivia’s are.”
“I know. I want yours to come true, too.”
Ava stopped in the hall doorway. “What about your dreams?”
“My dream,” Phoebe said lightly, abandoning the soap for her wine, “is to see Maggie and Olivia all set for their charity ball. Go grab your stuff. I’ll get the dresses.”
* * *
Three hours, two and a half bottles of wine, a pot of vegetable curry and much laughter later, Phoebe was again alone in her kitchen. Olivia and Maggie had precise instructions, beautiful handmade masks and everything else they needed to transform themselves into their own versions of Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly.
The dresses had worked out even better than Phoebe had imagined.
The dresses.
Ava had recognized them first. “Phoebe, these aren’t like the dresses Audrey and Grace wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and To Catch a Thief. They are the dresses.”
“Close copies,” Phoebe had said, then again deflected questions about where she’d gotten them.
She turned out the light in the kitchen and walked down a short hall to a small back room. For most of the past eighteen months, she’d used it to store paint supplies, tools and junk she’d collected from the rest of the house but wasn’t sure what to do with. Then, on a rainy night earlier that summer, she’d cleaned everything out, wiped down the walls, mopped the floor and considered the possibilities. A guestroom? A study? A spa bathroom?
In another life, it would have made a great baby’s room.
She felt the same pang of regret she’d felt that night, but it was ridiculous. If her father hadn’t died and her steady college boyfriend hadn’t given her an impossible ultimatum, she wouldn’t have ended up on Thistle Lane at all, with or without babies.
Florida.
She’d have ended up in Florida.
She tore off the dry-cleaning plastic to a third dress she’d had cleaned along with the Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn dresses. It hung on a hook in the back room.
She stepped back, marveling at the creativity and the workmanship of the gown. It was Edwardian, one of the period pieces in the hidden room. Its creator had chosen a warm, rich brown silk satin, decorated it with sparkling beads, lace and embroidery, all in a matching brown. It had an empire waist, a deep square neckline and loose, belled lacy sleeves.
And there was a matching hat.
It was as romantic and beautiful a dress as any Phoebe had ever seen.
A gown for a princess.
She tried to shake off the thought. She’d had too much wine. Just two glasses, but she felt...well, a little reckless.
And why not?
After all, what could be more perfect for a masquerade ball than a gorgeous, mysterious dress from a secret attic room?
Two
“I could pass for a swashbuckler right now,” Noah Kendrick said as he stretched out on an expanse of granite near the base of Mount Washington, the tallest peak in the White Mountains of northern New England. “If I don’t shave or shower before tonight, I’ll be all set.”
Dylan McCaffrey shrugged off his pack and sat on another boulder. Noah saw no sign that four days of hiking had had any effect on his friend beyond sweat, stubble and a certain grubbiness. Two of Dylan’s hockey player friends had joined them but had split off that morning for several more days of tramping in the mountains. It was Dylan’s and Noah’s first time hiking in the White Mountains. They were in good shape, but Mount Washington was a hell of a climb, their last summit before heading back to civilization.
And a charity ball.
Great, Noah thought without enthusiasm.
He doubted that anyone at NAK, Inc., had needed to reach him in the past three nights and four days. He was the founder of the high-tech entertainment company that bore his initials—NAK, for Noah Andrew Kendrick. The convergence of technology and entertainment had fascinated him for as long as he could remember, and he’d managed to turn it into a profitable business. NAK was just four years old but had gone public last fall, a grueling process that had consumed him and his senior managers.
He’d stepped down as CEO in June. His idea.
One of his smarter moves had been to get Dylan, fresh out of the NHL and looking for something new to do, to help with NAK. He’d eased back from day-to-day involvement now, too.
NAK would have gone bust within months without Dylan’s help. Dylan knew how to read people. He knew how to fight in a way Noah didn’t.
They were both keenly aware that a central challenge for a newly public company was to figure out what to do with the founder. Sometimes the best thing for the company was for the founder to stay on as CEO, or at least remain deeply involved in the stewardship of his or her creation.
Sometimes the best thing was for the founder to find something else to do.
Like spend a few days hiking on the other side of the continent.
Noah decided to focus on that problem another time. “I promise I won’t step foot in that ballroom until I’ve had a shower,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to scare the ladies.”
Dylan grunted. “More like turn everyone off their hors d’oeuvres.”
Noah grinned, leaning back on one arm as he surveyed the view of the mixed hardwood forest they were about to enter, a relief after the rugged, open terrain above the tree line.