He spared a glance for Chloe. She stared at her plate as if it had suddenly started forming signs and symbols in the mashed potatoes.
“A young woman heard the commotion,” Cassie continued. “She lived in a small cottage on the outskirts of town. I think she was being shunned or something but no one knows for sure. Anyway, she invited the old woman in and protected her from the men. In return the woman gave her a magic nightgown.”
“Really?”
Cassie’s humor faded. “I’m not making this up.”
“I don’t doubt you. It’s just clothing isn’t commonly used to carry magic. It doesn’t age well, is easily torn or destroyed. But it’s not unheard of. What’s the magic?”
“This is the good part. Every woman in the family is supposed to wear the nightgown on the night of her twenty-fifth birthday. If she does, she’ll dream about the man she’s going to marry. He’s her destiny and as long as she marries him, they’ll live a long and happy life together.”
“I see.” Interesting story. He’d heard several like it before in different forms. It was a common theme. Related stories were the idea of sleeping with a piece of wedding cake under the pillow, or the stories about St. Agnes Eve.
“Any punishment for not sleeping in the nightgown?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. Aunt Charity? You’re the one who knows the most about it.”
Charity shrugged. “There have been rumors of unhappy marriages when the woman didn’t pay attention to her dream and married the wrong man, but I don’t think there’s a penalty for not wearing the nightgown.”
“I’d like to see the nightgown,” he said.
“Is that really necessary?” Chloe asked. “It’s just a nightgown. I mean you’ve probably seen a dozen just like it.”
“Ignore her,” Cassie said, rising to her feet. “She’s crabby because the legend let her down.”
More intrigued because Chloe was obviously hiding something, Arizona leaned toward her. “What don’t you want me to know?”
“Nothing.” But her dark gaze avoided his. “It’s just a story. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means something to your sister.”
“Cassie has always been the dreamer in the family.”
“Oh, and you’re the practical one?”
This time she looked directly at him. “Absolutely. I only believe in things I can prove.”
“Not magic?”
“Magic is skillful sleight of hand at best, smoke and mirrors at worst.”
Before he could answer, Cassie returned to the kitchen. She handed him a soft cotton-and-lace nightgown. The fabric was old, but it didn’t have the look or feel of something from a couple hundred years ago. He fingered the lace. Sometimes objects spoke to him. Not in words, but in images or sensations. A prickling along the back of his neck or a—She stretched out on the straw and reached up for him. Her eyes were bright with passion, her lips wet from his kisses. Slowly, so neither of them could doubt his intent, he knelt beside her and placed one hand on the inside of her knee. Inch by inch he drew his hand up toward the most secret part of her. The nightgown offered only token resistance, tightening slightly before sliding out of the way.
As quickly as it had appeared, the image faded, leaving Arizona feeling aroused and slightly disconcerted. He hadn’t really seen much of the woman’s face. Just her mouth. But he’d formed an impression of her, one strong enough to identify her.
Chloe.
“What do you think?” Charity asked, her gaze far too knowing.
He hoped his expression didn’t give anything away. He cleared his throat before speaking. “It’s antique enough to pass muster in a vintage clothing shop, but this isn’t more than fifty or sixty years old.”
Cassie’s mouth drooped with disappointment.
“Hey, that doesn’t mean the magic won’t work,” he told her. “Who wears it next?”
“I do,” Cassie said, then raised her eyebrows. “Of course my birthday isn’t for about six months. However, if you want to talk about a recent experience, ask Chloe. She wore it last night.”
“Really?”
Chloe flushed slightly. “It was my birthday yesterday. Big deal. I wore it. Nothing happened.”
He studied her, the smooth skin, the high cheekbones and firm set of her chin. She was lying, but about what?
“No dreams at all?” he asked.
“None worth mentioning.”
“Maybe you should let us be the judge of that. After all, if you’re so interested in my story, maybe you should share yours with me. Just to be fair.” As he said the words, the image of her in the nightgown popped back into his head. No way, he told himself. It hadn’t been him. He wasn’t anyone’s idea of destiny. The fates were smart enough to know that.