Eleven wasn't early. Lynn was set to say as much. Before she could get the words out, Trace was walking down the hall and calling over his shoulder as he went, “Wear something sexy to the dance."
Lynn followed him into the living room. “Why should I?"
Trace's hand was on the door knob. “Because Dad has to think you are some kind of femme fatale.” He eyed her speculatively, and then smiled. “I hope you can pull this off."
Before Lynn could find an answer that was scathing enough to counter such a derogatory remark, he was out the door and gone.
Turning on her heel, she headed for her closet as Trace's parting words echoed through her mind like some profane chant.
Wear something sexy. I hope you can pull this off
. The nerve of this guy! She would do better than ‘pull it off'; she would show him sexy such as he'd never seen before. She'd shock that superior grin right off his handsome face.
Lynn opened her closet door and rummaged around inside for several minutes before saying aloud, “Not wearing any of these clothes."
Slamming the door, she sat on the side of her bed and admitted a sad truth to herself. “I don't know how to be sexy.” She almost acknowledged defeat, but only almost. Jumping to her feet, she paced across the floor and stared out the window. Traffic moved up and down the busy street. Pedestrians made their way to and fro along the busy sidewalk. Lights from the town spread a warm glow across the scene. “Maybe it's high time I learned."
Once more dejection overtook her. How did a near-thirty, almost inexperienced woman learn over night how to be sexy?
Memory pulled her back across the years. She'd begun dating Joel in junior high school against Lillie's wishes and over her protests.
You are too young to date
.
Had Lynn listened? No.
Their sophomore year in high school Joel asked Lynn to go steady. She readily agreed, once more over Lillie's protests and even though she knew that ‘going steady’ with Joel meant also being sexually intimate with him.
Lynn looked forward with mounting anticipation to some glorious, exhilarating sexual coming together with Joel. She soon came face to face with a sobering reality. Glorious, exhilarating encounters such as she had read about in romance novels simply did not exist in real life.
How those old memories came back to taunt her; she had expected too much. Looking back now, she knew that she'd also given too little. Instead of being some otherworld experience, that first intimate encounter with Joel had been brief and disappointing.
Yet in her childish heart, she was convinced that she loved this slight-built, smiling, fun-loving boy. She overlooked his bumbling first attempt at intimacy and many more incomplete and abortive attempts to satisfy her before their lovemaking took on some semblance of mutual gratification.
A wayward tear rolled down Lynn's cheek. She had been so young and so naïve, so firm in the belief that she and Joel were destined to share a grand passion. That grand passion never materialized. Over time, Lynn came to accept that, like the myth of Santa Claus and the fable of the tooth fairy, cataclysmic earth shattering sexual experiences simply did not exist.
And now Trace wanted her to look sexy. Why? Joel had never asked her to be sexy. But them Joel loved her and...” Like a tidal wave the extent of her self-deceit rolled over her. Joel didn't love her, he couldn't have. Joel had deserted her and then divorced her. She fell onto the bed and wept bitter tears.
After several minutes she gained some control, dried her eyes on the end of the sheet and sat up in bed. A thought that was not unlike a revelation took her with sudden force. Maybe if she had been sexier, whatever the hell sexy was, Joel would still be around. She lay back down, pulled the sheet up under her chin and stared at the ceiling. She wanted to blame Joel for the failure of their marriage; she couldn't. The fault lay partly with her, but Lynn couldn't admit that, not even to herself. So she zeroed in on the individual who had forced her to take such a long hard look at her own sexuality, or lack of it: Trace Randolph.
She aimed the anger and frustration of many years in his direction. So Trace Randolph wanted her to dress sexy? She could do better than that. She would
be
sexy. She'd show him!
She did some mental calculating. This was Monday. She had four days to learn how to be a femme fatale. After a long while of going over options in her head, Lynn finally fell asleep planning her agenda for the next four days.
Lynn woke the next morning and headed for the shower as memories from last night crowed into her head like uninvited guests. Damn Trace Randolph. Damn Joel Evans. Damn all men.
Later that morning, Lynn cornered Ruthie. She needed answers to some very important questions. The fact that she was reduced to turning to Ruthie, of all people, for advice told of the desperate circumstances of her situation.
She eased into a chair and pulled it close to a table before motioning for Ruthie to join her. “Come and sit down, let's take a breather."
Uncertainty skipped across Ruthie's pretty features. “It's not time for my morning break yet."
Lynn reminded herself that patience was a virtue. “I know that. Would you please come and sit down? I need to ask you some questions."
Ruthie was immediately suspicious. “Have I done something wrong?"
Lynn shook her head. “No, this is something else."
"And can I still take my break when the time comes?” Ruthie hung her towel on a rack behind the counter.
"Of course you can."
Ruthie wore a floral summer frock with a boat shaped neck and cap sleeves. It hugged every line of her supple young body. Lynn watched as she sashayed across the room and made a mental note to practice swinging her hips when she walked. As Ruthie slipped into the chair across from her, she asked, “Where did you buy that dress?"
The young woman's mouth turned down at the corners. “You don't like my dress?"
"On the contrary,” Lynn replied, “I like it very much. Where did you buy it?"
Obviously flattered by Lynn's compliment, Ruthie gushed, “I got it at the little boutique down the street. It's a great place to shop. I buy a lot of my clothes there. I also like to shop at Miss Irene's Dress Shop over on Henry Street.” She stopped to catch her breath before saying, “They both have a much better selection than Grover's Department Store."
Second thoughts moved in to undermine Lynn's bold plans. “I always buy my clothes at Grover's.” Maybe she should back to Grover's this time.
Ruthie, honest as always said, “I know."
Lynn echoed, “You know, how?"
With artless candor Ruthie replied, “They look like old ladies dresses."
Lynn vaulted to her feet. “I'm going shopping. Hold the fort until I get back."
"Are you going to Grover's?"
Lynn retorted, “Not on your life.” Impulsively she asked, “Where do you get your hair done?"
Ruthie touched her long blonde tresses. “At Trudy's, but you have to have an appointment. She doesn't take walk-ins.” As Lynn removed her apron, Ruthie added, “You should get a rinse to bring out the red highlights in your hair."
Lynn grinned at her. A red rinse, huh? Perfect idea—that would make just the right kind of statement. She hurried out the front door, thinking as she moved along that in some ways Ruthie was one smart woman.
Chapter 8
Trace whistled as he drove to the back of the bakery and parked his pickup. If all went well tonight, by tomorrow morning, he would have that McGuire woman out of his dad's life permanently. That was a big if, and the success of his plan depended to a great extent on Lynn. Could he count on her to keep her end of the bargain? He hoped so. If she cooperated, the two of them should be able to pull off this little charade without a hitch.
If she cooperated
. Damn it, why did this woman have to be so opinionated and unpredictable?
He was halfway up the steps to Lynn's apartment when she came through the door and stood on the landing looking down at him. Trace stopped dead in his tracks and did a double take as his whistle died away on a caught breath. She was wearing a fire-engine red dress with a scooped neck and a short skirt. It was made of some soft, clinging material. She carried a little beaded handbag with a chain handle that looked like a relic from the 1920's.
Lynn waved and called out, “Don't bother to come up, I'll come down.” Hanging her handbag over her arm she began her slow descent.
Trace retreated back down the steps and stood looking up at her. He found it hard to believe that the voluptuous creature gliding down the stairway was really dowdy little Lynn Evans. As she came to a halt on the step above him, he gasped, “What have you done to your hair?"
Lynn ran her fingers through the sides of her long red tresses. “I got a rinse to bring out the color. Do you like it?"
Did he like it? He loved it! Her hair looked like spun fire. Trace turned on his boot heel and headed for his pickup taking long strides as he moved along. As if he didn't have enough to worry about, the sensible woman that he had expected to appear had been replaced by a stunning, eye-catching stranger. For no reason he could explain, he felt she had deceived him. “Not in particular, why?"
"That's not a very nice thing to say.” Lynn ran to catch up. “Slow down, I'm wearing heels."
It wasn't very nice. He should apologize. He couldn't bring himself to do that. Trace slowed his pace. As Lynn caught up, she asked, “Do you like my dress?"
Trace stopped and turned to stare down into her upturned face. She wore an inordinate amount of makeup. “I...” He stepped back and his eyes traveled over her body, taking in the ample cleavage that the dress revealed. Good God! He could see her nipples pressing against the clinging material of the dress. She
wasn't
wearing a bra!
"Don't you think it's a little revealing?” He noted the way the abbreviated skirt hugged her hips before it flared around her very shapely bare legs. She had on black patent leather pumps with three-inch stiletto heels.
Why should what she had on bother him so much? Damn it, he didn't know why, but it did. He turned his back on her and hurried toward his pickup.
As Lynn overtook and passed him, she said with a toss of her head, “You said look sexy."
Trace seemed rooted to the spot where he stood. He watched the way her body moved with a mixture of desire and disgust pumping through his veins. It was apparent, even from a distance that she had on very little under that damn dress.
Lynn got into the pickup and slammed the door hard before sticking her head out the window to ask, “Are you coming?"
Her words galvanized Trace to action. Climbing into the driver's seat he put the key in the ignition and gave it a vicious twist. “When did I say ‘look sexy'?” He pulled the pickup into reverse and stepped on the gas. “I don't remember saying anything of the kind.” He was lying. He remembered all too well. Why hadn't he kept his mouth shut?
The little truck shot like a gun from its parking place. Lynn grasped the dash with one hand. “You did, last Monday night just before you left my apartment.” She fastened her seat belt. “Do you think Ralph will be properly impressed?"
Trace revved the motor before driving toward the busy street. “Oh, he's going to be impressed all right.” Every man in the Grange Hall was going to be impressed. The problem was that those impressions would be far removed from proper, and for some reason that bothered him more than he wanted to admit.
Trace stopped his truck and looked both ways before pulling into the steady stream of traffic. “There is more than one kind of sexy.” He wanted to get his point across as tactfully as possible. “There's sleazy sexy and there's stylish sexy.” He looked briefly in her direction. “If you'd like to go back and change, we have time."
He had expected maybe an argument. What he hadn't expected was an insult. Lynn turned in the seat to face him. “You uncouth son-of-a-bitch; you can take me back period. I'm not going anywhere with you."
Trace's anger flared. This woman was disrespecting both him and his mother. But in the length of time it took him to wheel into a parking lot and hit his brakes he realized that he couldn't let this golden opportunity to rescue his dad slip away because he was angry. “Suit yourself.” He shrugged one shoulder, and struggled to appear cool and collected. “But if you don't go with me tonight, I don't go with you tomorrow night."
After a spate of condemning silence, Lynn agreed, but grudgingly. “Okay, I'll go with you. But it will be as I am. I'm not changing clothes.” She folded her arms across her breasts and turned to stare out the windshield. “That was a rotten thing to say."
He had hurt her and that hadn't been his intent; at least he didn't think it had been his intent. Why had he reacted so strongly to Lynn's wearing such revealing apparel? “It was, wasn't it?” He'd been crass and insensitive. Trace found himself doing something he seldom did, apologizing. “I'm sorry."
Lynn batted her eyes. “You should be. If I cry my mascara will run."
Trace had to smile. He found her honesty refreshing. “Then don't cry.” She might look sexy but she obviously didn't know the first thing about being sexy. He'd like to teach her some of the fundamentals of being a woman. With her spirit and fire, she would no doubt be an apt pupil. He decided, not knowing quite how he had arrived at the conclusion, that Joel Evans was either a jerk or a fool. Maybe he was both. Trace started his pickup. “Let's go over our plan again.” He pulled back into the line of traffic.
"I don't need to go over that stupid plan again.” Lynn continued to stare out the windshield. “I know it by heart already. Let's just get this thing done."
That seemed a reasonable request. “All right, but this has to look spontaneous and real, so don't overdo it.”
As you have by wearing that damn dress trying to look sexy.
Damn it, why was he so upset? Hell he wasn't just upset, he was angry too, and more than a little confused. Pulling into the Grange Hall's crowded parking lot, he quickly spotted a slot far from the hall and pulled his truck into it.