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So we are sisters, separated only by time. Take the lace and make it into something beautiful…
Marigold had the most absorbing Christmas Eve afternoon.
After gently removing the curtain from its hooks, she washed it tenderly. It dried within minutes by the fire, and then, very carefully, she cut the lace to a pattern she’d drawn out on an old newspaper, humming along to a Christmas carol concert as she worked.
Several hundred tiny, neat stitches later the top was ready, and even to Marigold’s critical eyes it looked like a million dollars. She pulled it over her head for the final fit and then sat, flushed with success, as she looked at her reflection in the ancient mirror on the back of one of the wardrobe doors. It could be a Dior, she told herself firmly. Or an Armani or a Versace. It had a real touch of class. And the simple black pumps she had stuffed into her case at the last minute wouldn’t look amiss either. Of course, black strappy sandals would have looked better, but no one would have expected that with her ankle the way it was.
It was getting dark outside by the time she dressed the little tree Flynn had brought, but once festooned in the tinsel and glittering baubles Bertha had sent it looked delightful.
Marigold was so pleased with the top and the tree she had a glass of Flynn’s wicked red wine with a calorie-loaded pizza at five o’clock, but, owing to the fact that she had resisted taking any of the painkillers with the party in mind that day, she felt she could indulge.
Once she’d eaten, she concentrated on her make-up and her hair. After two attempts to put her hair up she stopped fighting and allowed it its freedom. It fell, shining, swinging and glossy, to her shoulders, its subtle shades complimenting her creamy skin and deep blue eyes, although Marigold herself was oblivious to its beauty. She stared anxiously into the mirror, wishing she could twirl and pin it high on her head to give the illusion of an extra inch or two to her height, but it was so fine and silky it defied pins and restraints.
After applying the lightest of foundations to her clear, smooth skin, Marigold brushed a little indigo-blue shadow on her eyelids and a couple of coatings of mascara on her lashes. A touch of creamy plum lipstick and she was nearly ready. She bit fretfully on her full lower lip as she surveyed her reflection, and then clicked her tongue in annoyance as lipstick coated her two front teeth.
After a tissue had removed the offending colour Marigold tried again, her heart fluttering like the wings of a bird. The top looked great, but what she would give for another five or six inches on her height was nobody’s business!
Calm, girl, calm. She fixed tiny silver studs in her ears—the only earrings she had brought with her—as she wondered what on earth she was doing. This was as far removed from the cosy, quiet Christmas Eve she’d had in mind a few days ago as a trip to the moon! But it was happening… She breathed deeply and prayed for serenity. It was happening and all she could do was to get through the next few hours with as much poise and dignity as she could muster.
Why had Flynn asked her to the party? Was he really interested in her or was she just a novelty; worse, did he feel sorry for her? But those kisses hadn’t been borne of pity, had they? No, they hadn’t, she reassured herself feverishly. She might not be as experienced and worldly wise as Flynn Moreau, but even she knew the difference between sympathy and a far stronger emotion—that of desire.
But she didn’t want him to desire her! The girl looking back at her from out of the mirror’s misty depths challenged that thought with her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, and now Marigold’s face showed a touch of panic. She had to get a grip on herself, for goodness’ sake. A man like Flynn could have any woman he wanted with a click of his fingers; he wasn’t about to lose any sleep over her one way or the other. All she had to do was to make it clear she wasn’t on for a little Christmas hanky-panky and she wouldn’t see him for dust. Simple really.
The firm, loud knock on the front door of the cottage interrupted this rational line of thought and brought Marigold’s eyes snapping open to their fullest extent. He was here! She cast one last, frantic glance at the mirror and then shut her eyes tightly for a moment, before opening them and bringing back her shoulders in a stance which would have been more appropriate for going to war than to a Christmas Eve party.
She had rested her ankle all day and she felt the benefit of this as she walked to meet Flynn, although it had still been a slight struggle to force her shoe over her swollen foot.
‘Hi.’ His voice was lazy as she opened the door; his eyes were anything but.
Marigold flushed slightly at the male appreciation the grey gaze was making no effort to conceal, and knew every second of the hours it had taken to make the lacy top was worthwhile. ‘Hello.’ She was pleased how composed her voice sounded.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said very softly, his height and breadth accentuated by the dusky-grey silk shirt and black trousers he was wearing.
Marigold
was overwhelmingly relieved he wasn’t in a dinner jacket. Her top with the expensive black jeans came nicely within smart-casual category. Nevertheless, his clothes screamed an exclusive designer label. For a moment she had the slightly hysterical thought—borne of nerves—as to what he would say if he knew she was wearing an old curtain, but then she thrust it to one side and answered politely, ‘Thank you.’
‘Here.’ He had been holding one hand behind his back and now he brought out a small box in which reposed the most exquisite corsage of two pale cream orchids. ‘I must have sixth sense or something; it’s just the right colour.’
‘Oh, how lovely.’ She was entranced at the delicate beauty of the flowers, the pink in her cheeks deepening at the unexpected gift. ‘But you really shouldn’t have.’
He smiled slowly, extracting the corsage from its snug box and bending forward to fix it on her top as he said quietly, his eyes on the flowers, ‘Wilf’s prepared one for each of the female guests tonight, courtesy of his greenhouse.’
His fingers were warm against her skin as he fixed the orchids in place and Marigold was glad he was concentrating on the corsage for two reasons. One, his touch was doing the strangest things to her insides, and two, ridiculously the fact that every woman at the party was receiving the same gift had hurt for a moment.
‘But I chose this one myself.’ His voice smoky warm, he added, ‘There was something about the delicate beauty on the outside of the flower married to the fierce, passionate colour within which reminded me of you.’
That suggestion again that she was passionate, fiery… Marigold wrenched her eyes from his as she looked down at the orchids, their scent heady and the rich, vibrant scarlet inside the graceful blooms a magnificent contrast to the cool loveliness of the exterior.
‘That’s very flattering,’ she managed fairly lightly, ‘especially for someone called Marigold Flower. I’ve never imagined myself being likened to an orchid.’
‘Oh, I’m not underestimating the beauty of the marigold, I assure you.’
He was still very close, too close, and she didn’t like how her nerves tingled but found her body’s response was quite outside of her control.
‘I think they’re exquisite flowers, as it happens,’ he continued silkily, his eyes intent on her flushed face. ‘The French marigold with its yellow and chestnut-red flowers and the full, delicate African variety are just as lovely as the dwarf with its small single orange flowers, and they are all fighters, did you know that? Hardy and determined to survive as well as beautiful. Of course, they prefer sunny, tranquil places and a trouble-free existence, but when adversity and storms arrive they find they can grow almost anywhere.’
Marigold was quite aware Flynn was talking about more than garden plants. She stared at him, wondering how it was that the veiled compliments should give her such enormous pleasure when she had only known him for forty-eight hours or so. And then she took hold of the feeling of excitement and gratification as a little warning voice deep in her mind spoke cold reason. As a chat-up line it was pretty good and he had obviously done his homework on marigolds, she thought wryly, but all this didn’t mean anything beyond a brief flirtation.
