When the sky had brightened to a milky blue, he entered the kitchen, intending to start the coffee and heat water for shaving. But first, he paused outside the door of his daughters’ bedroom.
Even from here he imagined he could smell the same seductive rosy scent that he’d inhaled on Angie’s pillow. He pictured her sleeping, curled on her side, her lips slightly parted, her lashes long on her cheeks. And his stomach tightened.
Angie had played no role in his life for so long that he’d naively assumed his indifference would continue with her living in his house. But seeing her every day in all her moods and all her womanly ways, watching her step into his life and share the burdens he was accustomed to carrying alone . . . being exposed to her dimpled beauty and his growing need for her was changing something deep inside him.
He wanted her to respect him. He wanted her to admire him.
He wanted her.
Chapter 12
The Wednesday mending circle helped Angie decide between the two ball gowns she’d brought from Chicago. After an hour of heated discussion and vacillation, the satin-and-brocade was chosen over the faille-and-velvet.
Abby Mueller carefully ironed the lace ruffles that flared over puffed sleeves and repeated in a lacy outline framing a deeply pointed waist, while Tilly Morgan worked at the kitchen table, creating a hair ornament out of bits and scraps.
“Eardrops, but nothing at the neck,” Molly advised.
Dorothy Church nodded. “Bare throats are fashionable. Bracelets are good though.”
“Bracelets look so silly worn over long evening gloves, don’t you agree?” Frowning, Tilly tried to choose among the sprays of rosebuds she’d placed in a row for comparison.
Stepping back, Molly eyed Angie’s hair. “You tuck the hand and fingers of the glove inside the wrist, as you would for dinner, then shake the bracelet down,” she explained absently.
Abby stopped ironing. “Molly Johnson! How would you know about ball gloves and formal dining?”
Molly laughed. “I know more tidbits of useless information than anyone you’ve met.”
“But you’ve obviously been to balls and social suppers,” Abby said to Angie. “Is Molly correct?”
“I believe she is. Molly, stop looking at me like that. I don’t want some outlandish hairstyle. Just a simple upsweep.”
Bending to rummage in the trunk she had dragged into the kitchen, Angie located slippers, a bag to match the white satin-and-brocade, and a lacy white evening fan.
Molly snapped open the fan and peeked over the top. “Remember when ladies used to send gentlemen messages through the secret language of the fan? Here’s the come-hither look.”
“My mama was too busy raising eight children to teach me any language of the fan,” Tilly said, rolling her eyes.
Dorothy smiled. “Your come-hither look isn’t too subtle, Molly. Give me the fan. Now watch. You’re supposed to appear disinterested and let the fan speak for you.”
They all burst into laughter. Shaking her head, Abby exchanged the cool iron for a hot one. “You don’t look indifferent, Dorothy, you look madder than a wet cat. Maybe that fan says come-hither, but you look like you’d stomp any man who dared try.”
While Molly brushed out her hair, Angie listened and enjoyed the easy banter of the women in her kitchen. It touched her that they wanted to share in the preparations and the excitement of the hotel’s grand opening. And there was not a hint of envy or resentment that Angie would attend, but they would not.
Right at this moment, she decided there was no place on Earth she would rather be than here in her crowded kitchen with these women and the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter and the warmth of the afternoon sunshine falling through the back door.
“If you’ll pin up the back of her hair,” Dorothy said to Molly, “I’ll crimp her bangs. As soon as the iron is hot.”
Abby glanced up from pressing Angie’s gown. “Did I see Winnie Govenor coming out of here not long ago? Are the Govenors in town for the grand opening?”
“Good heavens.” Tilly looked up from the table. “You have to be the only person who didn’t hear about Sam Holland and Herb Govenor getting into it over at—” Abruptly she stopped speaking and turned a stricken look toward Angie.
Angie drew a breath and folded her hands in her lap. “There was a fight.” To her relief no one inquired as to the cause. No one spoke at all until Molly stepped into the silence.
“Angie’s a grown woman. She isn’t going to swoon at the mention of the Govenors.” Impatient hands tugged at Angie’s hair. “Everyone here knows what’s going on. And everyone here dislikes the Govenors because of it. But if you ask me, Winnie Govenor isn’t all that bad. She’s just cold and distant and misguided.”