them into the Camaro’s ignition. There was no roar of an engine, no revving when he pressed the gas. “Well, what do you think about that? She’s dead.”
“She?”
He tried again and again. Nothing. “This is strange. I tuned her up myself, checked all the fluids, the belts. This car is practically new. Hold on a minute.” William leaned over to kiss my cold cheek with his own cold lips. His beard was nice and warm, though. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched as he stepped out to inspect the engine, lifting the hood with a swift motion and locking it in place. “This isn’t going to work,” I mumbled to myself. “I know what you’re doing, Will. You’re trying to scare me, throw me off somehow.” When he peered under the hood to smile, I smiled politely back, muttering through my teeth, “I’m not giving in.”
After a few minutes, he dropped the hood and resumed his place behind the wheel. A twist of the key, and the engine roared to life. “You can never be too sure of things, Emma. See how it started, but before it was completely dead? All I did was jiggle a couple of wires.”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
With a yank of gears sending us into reverse, we were headed out, snow crunching under the tires. “Doesn’t that idea scare you?”
“Nope.”
He grimaced, and I heard him say under his breath, “Dammit.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Mascara, yes. Lipstick, yes. Powder, yes. False eyelashes, no . Grabbing a rumpled copy of Harper’s Bazaar for the umpteenth time, I again read the step-by-step instructions on how to transform myself into Grace Kelly. I could have gone for Debbie Reynolds or Doris Day, or if I’d been in a really wild mood, Joan Crawford. But I thought Grace Kelly would be more my style. Hint: she was more of a natural girl.
I heard a sound outside the door and peeked over my shoulder to see William still pacing in the hall. “Go do something!” I yelled when his footsteps stalled. I applied a moderate coating of lipstick from Coty Cosmetics—“ Smooth, easy to apply yet never smears!” —in a shade of red which had never gone out of production, then I blotted my lips with toilet paper and stood back to look. Not bad. Nothing I’d wear on a daily basis, but for a trip to the 1950s, sure.
I shot a hand up to loosen a foam curler from my hair. The article said to set while wet using a good dollop of Dippity-Do gel, wrap the hair backward, and allow to dry overnight. I’d only had a few hours, so I used the hairdryer to speed things up. With the removal of one curler, a long section of hair fell into my eyes like a golden S. Each one fell the same way. My thick hair was almost impossible to pin, but I had another article explaining how to do that as well. For the old-fashioned girl who still had the locks of her youth, five strategic bobby pins would do the trick. Five, painful, industrial strength bobby pins. Ouch. In ten minutes I had a chignon to make Grace Kelly scream with envy—or pain.
“Are you done yet?”
“No.” I used the pointy end of a comb to ease out a few extra-tight sections. There. Less pain. And it looked good, it really did. Next came the outfit, a light blue blouse and tan skirt with black patent leather belt right above the waist. A nice touch since, with the way the skirt spread slightly outward, no one could see my expanding abdomen.
A pair of black pumps and some darling little pearl earrings, and I was done.
But now I felt sick. My hands shook as I carefully reinserted every item of beauty into the vintage bag William had bought for me at his favorite second-hand store. Among the curlers and lipsticks was a girdle I couldn’t bear to put on. I stuffed it down even farther and placed over it the wallet full of vintage ten and twenty dollar bills I was to keep safe for both of us.
But this wasn’t what made my hands shake. It was William, standing outside, waiting. I knew how much it meant for him to see me dressed like this, in the fashion and style of
“She?”
He tried again and again. Nothing. “This is strange. I tuned her up myself, checked all the fluids, the belts. This car is practically new. Hold on a minute.” William leaned over to kiss my cold cheek with his own cold lips. His beard was nice and warm, though. “I’ll be right back.”
I watched as he stepped out to inspect the engine, lifting the hood with a swift motion and locking it in place. “This isn’t going to work,” I mumbled to myself. “I know what you’re doing, Will. You’re trying to scare me, throw me off somehow.” When he peered under the hood to smile, I smiled politely back, muttering through my teeth, “I’m not giving in.”
After a few minutes, he dropped the hood and resumed his place behind the wheel. A twist of the key, and the engine roared to life. “You can never be too sure of things, Emma. See how it started, but before it was completely dead? All I did was jiggle a couple of wires.”
“Yeah. Uh-huh.”
With a yank of gears sending us into reverse, we were headed out, snow crunching under the tires. “Doesn’t that idea scare you?”
“Nope.”
He grimaced, and I heard him say under his breath, “Dammit.”
¤ ¤ ¤
Mascara, yes. Lipstick, yes. Powder, yes. False eyelashes, no . Grabbing a rumpled copy of Harper’s Bazaar for the umpteenth time, I again read the step-by-step instructions on how to transform myself into Grace Kelly. I could have gone for Debbie Reynolds or Doris Day, or if I’d been in a really wild mood, Joan Crawford. But I thought Grace Kelly would be more my style. Hint: she was more of a natural girl.
I heard a sound outside the door and peeked over my shoulder to see William still pacing in the hall. “Go do something!” I yelled when his footsteps stalled. I applied a moderate coating of lipstick from Coty Cosmetics—“ Smooth, easy to apply yet never smears!” —in a shade of red which had never gone out of production, then I blotted my lips with toilet paper and stood back to look. Not bad. Nothing I’d wear on a daily basis, but for a trip to the 1950s, sure.
I shot a hand up to loosen a foam curler from my hair. The article said to set while wet using a good dollop of Dippity-Do gel, wrap the hair backward, and allow to dry overnight. I’d only had a few hours, so I used the hairdryer to speed things up. With the removal of one curler, a long section of hair fell into my eyes like a golden S. Each one fell the same way. My thick hair was almost impossible to pin, but I had another article explaining how to do that as well. For the old-fashioned girl who still had the locks of her youth, five strategic bobby pins would do the trick. Five, painful, industrial strength bobby pins. Ouch. In ten minutes I had a chignon to make Grace Kelly scream with envy—or pain.
“Are you done yet?”
“No.” I used the pointy end of a comb to ease out a few extra-tight sections. There. Less pain. And it looked good, it really did. Next came the outfit, a light blue blouse and tan skirt with black patent leather belt right above the waist. A nice touch since, with the way the skirt spread slightly outward, no one could see my expanding abdomen.
A pair of black pumps and some darling little pearl earrings, and I was done.
But now I felt sick. My hands shook as I carefully reinserted every item of beauty into the vintage bag William had bought for me at his favorite second-hand store. Among the curlers and lipsticks was a girdle I couldn’t bear to put on. I stuffed it down even farther and placed over it the wallet full of vintage ten and twenty dollar bills I was to keep safe for both of us.
But this wasn’t what made my hands shake. It was William, standing outside, waiting. I knew how much it meant for him to see me dressed like this, in the fashion and style of
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