the colors. Have you ever seen a more beautiful marriage of textile dyes? It’s a classy, spectacular blend of fine lines, flowers that breathe, and impeccable color choices.”
“Don’t you say that about all your vintage clothes?” Nick asked.
“Well, this is a new high for me. And I gotta tell you, I’ve never seen a garment bag like this one. It’s probably worth as much as the dress. I just figured out the side zippers.Look, it folds up to look like a vintage handbag, while hugging the dress and protecting it from anything you put in the bag. It could be a Hermès. It’s that brilliant.”
“Bepah used to paint this dress.” Paisley took the amazing Cassini off the hanger, and held it up to herself, shook her head, then held it up to me, as if for a better effect.
I squeaked but to no purpose and I could not, not , move my legs to step away from its universal pull.
The shiver that ran up my spine had nothing to do with spinning out of my own skin, which I was, but stepping into a smoldering sexual haze. It had to do with the lowering of a zipper, my own, the one down the back of my brilliant Cassini, a dress so fine, it felt like I wore a swath of couture-designed tropical air rather than fabric.
My lover turned me to face him, and I lost my ability to speak. Dante, alive and well, heart beating beneath my hand. He was all rogue, sexual energy radiating off him and warming me, readying me to be his.
Ack!
He took me in his arms to waltz me across an art nouveau bedroom, the shadows alive, giving life to the light, the room bright, and airy, romantic, seductive. A Tiffany glass–type window—likely real Tiffany—stood guard over a satinwood four-poster.
The bed was the centerpiece of the room. Leave it to Dante.
The Waverly fabric, at its peak in the forties, printed in muted art nouveau colors, bloomed on curtains and spread.
I was so busy looking at the room, and wondering how to get away, that I got a second shock when we passed the satinwood trifold floor mirror and saw exactly whom he danced with—the woman I had become—Dolly.
A series of panicked questions, and an urge to run, rushed me, taking my heartbeat with it…for so many reasons.
One, how had Dolly owned the brilliant print Cassini we found in a creepy closet on Coffin Farm?
Two, given the way my surroundings dated themselves, at Dante’s and the farm, Dolly had clearly been the dress’s first owner. So how did Paisley’s family end up with so treasured a memento that Bepah would spend his twilight years painting it?
Three, if Dante’s hands continued on their current course, I did not want to see, or experience , what happened next.
By sheer will, I closed my mind to the incarnation I’d found myself in, to the touch I rejected—I’d certainly gone far enough here—and begged the universe for a reprieve.
When my knees turned to mint jelly, and Pucci help me, someone— please not Dante, not Dante —lifted me into his arms and set me down on a bed— oy, it was Dante —I got my wish, more or less, because I went reeling through the ether, a bit nauseous, a lot scared, dizzy, and disoriented.
But no longer caught in my throat was the pleasure-sigh I’d released, because—heaven help me—I’d liked where we were going.
This I would never mention to another soul, but Dante Underhill, dead undertaker, was a damned good kisser.
However, I was grateful, oh so grateful, that I would never know what else he was good at.
For two beats, I appreciated finding myself in the shoes of another, outside, where the air was thin, still wearing the Cassini, but this time, I stood somewhere near the top of…the Eiffel Tower?
In this new persona, I saw a man I recognized—let’s call him White Beard—an impatient unnamed courier who looked decades older than his years, frowning as if he’d like for me to take a flying leap off the tower, without a net.
Suddenly I longed for Dante’s attentions. No I didn’t, naughty me.
“Don’t you say that about all your vintage clothes?” Nick asked.
“Well, this is a new high for me. And I gotta tell you, I’ve never seen a garment bag like this one. It’s probably worth as much as the dress. I just figured out the side zippers.Look, it folds up to look like a vintage handbag, while hugging the dress and protecting it from anything you put in the bag. It could be a Hermès. It’s that brilliant.”
“Bepah used to paint this dress.” Paisley took the amazing Cassini off the hanger, and held it up to herself, shook her head, then held it up to me, as if for a better effect.
I squeaked but to no purpose and I could not, not , move my legs to step away from its universal pull.
The shiver that ran up my spine had nothing to do with spinning out of my own skin, which I was, but stepping into a smoldering sexual haze. It had to do with the lowering of a zipper, my own, the one down the back of my brilliant Cassini, a dress so fine, it felt like I wore a swath of couture-designed tropical air rather than fabric.
My lover turned me to face him, and I lost my ability to speak. Dante, alive and well, heart beating beneath my hand. He was all rogue, sexual energy radiating off him and warming me, readying me to be his.
Ack!
He took me in his arms to waltz me across an art nouveau bedroom, the shadows alive, giving life to the light, the room bright, and airy, romantic, seductive. A Tiffany glass–type window—likely real Tiffany—stood guard over a satinwood four-poster.
The bed was the centerpiece of the room. Leave it to Dante.
The Waverly fabric, at its peak in the forties, printed in muted art nouveau colors, bloomed on curtains and spread.
I was so busy looking at the room, and wondering how to get away, that I got a second shock when we passed the satinwood trifold floor mirror and saw exactly whom he danced with—the woman I had become—Dolly.
A series of panicked questions, and an urge to run, rushed me, taking my heartbeat with it…for so many reasons.
One, how had Dolly owned the brilliant print Cassini we found in a creepy closet on Coffin Farm?
Two, given the way my surroundings dated themselves, at Dante’s and the farm, Dolly had clearly been the dress’s first owner. So how did Paisley’s family end up with so treasured a memento that Bepah would spend his twilight years painting it?
Three, if Dante’s hands continued on their current course, I did not want to see, or experience , what happened next.
By sheer will, I closed my mind to the incarnation I’d found myself in, to the touch I rejected—I’d certainly gone far enough here—and begged the universe for a reprieve.
When my knees turned to mint jelly, and Pucci help me, someone— please not Dante, not Dante —lifted me into his arms and set me down on a bed— oy, it was Dante —I got my wish, more or less, because I went reeling through the ether, a bit nauseous, a lot scared, dizzy, and disoriented.
But no longer caught in my throat was the pleasure-sigh I’d released, because—heaven help me—I’d liked where we were going.
This I would never mention to another soul, but Dante Underhill, dead undertaker, was a damned good kisser.
However, I was grateful, oh so grateful, that I would never know what else he was good at.
For two beats, I appreciated finding myself in the shoes of another, outside, where the air was thin, still wearing the Cassini, but this time, I stood somewhere near the top of…the Eiffel Tower?
In this new persona, I saw a man I recognized—let’s call him White Beard—an impatient unnamed courier who looked decades older than his years, frowning as if he’d like for me to take a flying leap off the tower, without a net.
Suddenly I longed for Dante’s attentions. No I didn’t, naughty me.
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