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"I never used to be afraid of anything. Now everything scares me."
"Including me."
"Hmm." She was drifting off, too tired to deny it. "I don't want to mess things up again."
"I'm not going to let you." He leaned down to touch his lips to her shoulder. "Go to sleep, Margo. Everything's on the right track."
"Don't go away," she managed before she sank.
"When have I ever?"
Chapter Seventeen
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It had to be perfect. Margo was determined that every detail of the night would go off flawlessly. It took hours of rearranging stock before she was satisfied that she had achieved just the right presentation, the best traffic pattern, the most attractive corner for the harpist, who was even now tuning up.
She had redressed the window, highlighting the pearl choker with just a few carefully selected bottles and trinket boxes and silk scarves to add color.
The gilded banister that ringed the second floor was sparkling with fairy lights. Vases and decorative urns were filled with fall flowers and hothouse roses, culled from the Templeton gardens and greenhouse and elegantly arranged by her mother. On the tiny veranda, still more flowers bloomed lusciously out of copper pots and glazed pottery.
She had personally buffed, polished, and scrubbed every surface of the shop until it shined.
It was just a matter of controlling every detail, she told herself as she puffed manically on a cigarette. Of making sure everything was first class and overlooking nothing.
Had she overlooked something?
Turning, she studied herself in the wall of decorative mirrors. She wore the little black dress she'd chosen for her first dinner back at Templeton House. The neckline, that low square, was the perfect canvas for the choker. It had seemed a smart sales pitch to remove it from the window and display it against soft, female flesh. And she realized she'd chosen well when she'd selected that piece to auction.
Not just because it was elegant and lovely, she mused. Because it reminded her of a time of her life that would never come again. And a lonely old man she had had enough heart to care for.
So rare, she thought, for Margo Sullivan to have heart, to do something out of kindness rather than calculation.
Dozens of Margos, she mused. It had taken her almost twenty-nine years to realize that there were dozens of Margos. One who would throw caution to the winds, another who would worry endlessly. There was the Margo who knew how to hot-wax an antique table and the one who could laze away the day with a fashion magazine. The one who understood the rich pleasure of buying an art nouveau bottle for no more reason than seeing it sit on a shelf. And the one who'd learned to thrill at selling it. The one who could flash a smile and turn men to jelly, no matter what their age.
And the one who was suddenly able to think of only one man.
Where was he? Sick with nerves, she lit yet another cigarette. It was nearly time, nearly zero hour. He should have been there. This was a crisis point in her life. Josh was always there at the crisis points.
Always there, she thought, with a dull jolt of surprise. How odd that he should always be there at her turning points.
"Why don't you just chew that pack up, swallow it, and get it over with?" Kate suggested as she came through the door. "What?"
"If you're going to eat that cigarette, you might as well use your teeth. Traffic's murder out there," she added. "I had to park three blocks away, and I don't appreciate the hike in these stupid shoes you made me buy." Shrugging out of her practical coat, she lifted her arms. "Well, am I going to pass the audition?"
"Let's have a look." Margo crushed out the cigarette and with lips pursed circled her finger so Kate would turn around. The long sweep of the simple black velvet suited the angular frame, and the flirty scoop-necked bodice added softness. The back dipped alluringly.
"I knew it would be perfect for you. Despite being all skin and bones and flat-chested, you look almost elegant."
"I feel like an impostor, and I'm going to freeze." Kate didn't mind the critique of her body nearly as much as the inconvenience of bare shoulders. "I don't see why I couldn't wear my own clothes. That dinner suit I have is fine."
"That dinner suit is fine for the next accountant convention you go to." Margo knit her well-shaped eyebrows. "Those earrings."
"What?" Protectively, Kate closed her hands over earlobes decorated with simple gold swirls. "They're my best ones."
"And so department store. How could we have been raised in the same house?" Margo wondered and marched over to the jewelry display. After sober study, she chose jaw-length swings of rhinestones.
"I'm not wearing those chandeliers. I'll look ridiculous."
