A Bride To Honor. Arlene James
don’t let me down!”
Poor William, always in such turmoil, so fearful of being embarrassed by his family. All right, they were a tad...eccentric. But they meant well. Usually. She laid a mittened hand against his cheek and smiled reassuringly, completely forgetting that her own face was heavily painted with drawn-on eyelashes, red circle cheeks and a Cupid’s bow mouth. “I promise, brother dear, Mr. Paul Barclay Spencer of Barclay Bakeries will receive star treatment from me. And we’ll find him a costume that will impress this Betty person and make him feel comfortable at the same time. Upon my honor as your sister.”
William was only slightly mollified. “It’s Betina,” he said pointedly, “Betina Lincoln, though if all goes well she will almost certainly be Mrs. Paul Spencer by spring.”
“And Mr. Spencer will have the family business safely back in family hands again,” Cassidy said to prove that she had been paying attention after all, “and he’ll owe it all to you.” She patted William’s cheek encouragingly. He caught her hand and pushed it down to her side.
“Yes, if you don’t mess up everything. Now will you please, for heaven’s sake, get out of that absurd costume before he gets here?”
Cassidy sighed and reached up to tug off her enormous, red yarn wig with one mittened hand while sketching a cross over her heart with the other. “I’ll abandon Raggedy Ann for my own mousy persona and I’ll come up with the perfect costume for your boss, I swear, something that will win him the heart—and the company shares—of the glamorous, elusive Miss Betina Lincoln. Satisfied?”
William straightened, smoothed his unwrinkled Italian suit and nodded tersely. “Just remember, I’m counting on you.”
She smiled encouragingly, and he gave her his patented, big brother look of near approval. Then on his way out he ruined it by raking his clear green gaze over her costume-clad self and shaking his head as if to ask how such a promising young executive as himself had wound up being the sibling of such a pitiful goon as her. She honestly didn’t know what the problem was. She was a costumer. Costumers by definition designed, sewed and—if they were lucky enough to own their own shops, as she did—stored, displayed, rented, sold and, of course, wore costumes. Who on earth would wear a costumer’s costume if she didn’t wear one herself? Poor uptight William just didn’t always see the correlations in life—except as they pertained to him. Still, she reminded herself, the Penno family was a cross for poor William to bear, and she did not want to add to his burden.
He didn’t understand the divorce their parents had gone through last year, even though it was obvious to Cassidy that, despite thirty-five years of marriage—or perhaps because of it—Alvin and Anna Penno were completely incompatible. He didn’t see that they were both happier on their own or that the failed marriage had nothing whatsoever to do with him or her. She supposed that his association with the Barclay Spencer clan was part of the problem.
That family more than any other of whom she was aware made family and family concerns supreme, especially when it came to the family business, Barclay Bakeries. What must it be like, she wondered, to be part of such a cohesive unit? She supposed it was wonderful, since William seemed to admire and envy them so.
It certainly seemed fitting that Paul Spencer, CEO and general manager of the family bakeries, should many his stepcousin, especially since she had inherited shares of the company from the late Mr. Chester Barclay, Paul’s grandfather. A marriage between the two of them would tie everything up all neat and clean. She couldn’t help wondering, though, why “the lovely and sophisticated Miss Lincoln,” as described by William, was so reluctant to marry Paul now, especially considering that he had broken off a torrid affair with the woman against her will some months ago. It looked to Cassidy as if Betina would be getting everything she wanted with this marriage. But then, perhaps she had misunderstood that portion of her brother’s explanation.
Putting the Barclay bunch out of her mind, she started for the changing room, calling Tony away from the new Arabian Nights display that he was putting together out front. He stuck his head into the circus arena that now defined the second of four showrooms in the shop and waggled an eyebrow at her.
“You called, chérie?” he asked in an affected French accent. A jaunty straw boater was pushed onto the back of his head, revealing the black widow’s peak of which he was so proud. He was Maurice Chevalier today. Yesterday he’d been Clark Gable. Tomorrow, he was sure, he’d be the next great superstar of screen and stage, just as soon as he graduated college and left Dallas behind for Los Angeles or New York. He wasn’t quite certain yet which coast he was going to allow to discover him.
At twenty-five, her own dreams of acting success reshaped into a satisfying career as a costumer, Cassidy felt decades older and wiser than her twenty-year-old clerk/assistant Tony Abatto. She could even admit to a bit of impatience with his posturing and half-teasing passes, while at the same time chastising herself for raining, ever so lightly, on his parade. Let him believe in all-consuming passions and shooting-star careers while he could. He’d find out soon enough that it took more than mere talent to get a break in the business. Meanwhile work awaited, and promises had to be kept.
“I’m going to change,” she told him. “Watch the shop. I’m expecting a special customer.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. With my life I shall guard the repository of your dreams, another dedicated expression of the amour I bear you.”
“Better an expression of the amour you bear your job,” she said through a stage smile, winding her way through the circus paraphernalia strewn about the floor.
“Raggedy Ann not suit the mood?” Tony asked, coming fully into the room.
“My brother’s mood,” she tossed over her shoulder, catching the grimace he meant for her back. Tony was of the opinion that William was a Philistine of the grossest order, and while she agreed with him on one level, she felt duty-bound to defend her brother on another. She settled, this time, for a cutting glance, unaware that painted-on eyelashes and bright red grease paint somewhat ruined the effect. “Start a rack for me, Tony,” she called, slipping into the curtained alcove.
“Okay. What do you want on it?”
“Oh, the usual macho male themes.”
“One Dracula/Fighter Pilot/Corsair coming up.”
Cassidy sighed wistfully. She had a Peter Pumpkin Eater costume she’d like to palm off on somebody before Halloween, but she supposed it would not be wise to attempt it with William’s boss. On the other hand, every Dracula, pirate and military uniform in the building was reserved. Whatever Paul Spencer chose was bound to send her back to her sewing machine, and just when she’d thought she was through with the season rush. Oh, well, she could sleep the second week of November—if she lasted that long.
Cassidy first pulled off her mitts, then slipped out of the dress with its attached pinafore, hung it on a hook and divested herself of the calf-length bloomers, striped stockings and soft black shoes. Comfortable, snug-fitting jeans and a mustard yellow cardigan sweater worn buttoned to the top of the V-neck replaced the dress and pinafore. Heavy, plain white cotton socks and burgundy penny loafers, complete with the pennies, replaced the stripes and black shoes. Leaving her goldish brown hair pulled back with the aid of a rubber band, she took the costume and left the dressing room. From sheer habit she went directly to the permanent rack where the Raggedy Anns were kept and hung the costume in its proper place before heading to the mirrored makeup station in the far back of the shop.
She loved every inch of her store, but the makeup station was especially dear to her heart owing to the fact that it contained numerous components of her late grandfather’s barbershop, from the pole to a lather brush, which she used for dusting on powder. Seating herself in the creaky, green leather chair, she whipped a short cape from a drawer and swirled it around her throat and shoulders before reaching for a tub of cold cream. With her fingertips, she began working the white, red and black grease paint from her face. She had it converted nicely to a gooey, slimy, gray mass ready to be toweled off when a movement in the mirror alerted her that “Maurice” had walked up behind her. Before she could