On the other hand, she knew she didn't have many alternatives. She needed something long to wear because she didn't have any stockings, and she drew the line at borrowing another woman's lingerie. With the exception of this lounging dress, everything else in the closet that was ankle length was either very fancy or else it was pants. Moreover, the owner of these clothes was definitely taller than she which vastly limited her choices among those things. Biting her lip, she decided to wear the wonderful blue dress, and she uttered a silent apology to the unknown woman with the gorgeous wardrobe.
A second foray into the closet yielded a pair of matching blue ballet slippers that were a half size too large, but perfectly comfortable. Satisfied that she'd done the absolute best she could with what she had to work with, she fluffed her hair and took a last glance in the mirror. She'd spent more time getting ready for her "date" tonight than she had for her role as a bridesmaid in Carl and Sara's wedding, but it was time well spent, she decided. The cosmetics with the foreign names that she'd used tonight were much different than the inexpensive ones she'd bought in the drug store in Keaton and then discarded—these were far softer and more subtle. The muted eye shadow and mascara flattered her eves, even though it looked strange to her, and the touch of blush at her cheeks made her cheekbones seem higher and more prominent, but it was the prospect of seeing Zack and spending a lighthearted evening with him that made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. All in all, she decided, she'd never looked nearly as nice as this. Leaning forward, she applied some of her own lipstick, then she stepped back, smiled at her reflection, and headed for the bedroom door. She'd find out the address here, she decided, and send a check to cover the cosmetics she'd used and the cost of dry cleaning the clothes she'd borrowed.
The candles were already lit on the coffee table when she walked into the living room, the fire was burning brightly on the grate, and Zack was standing at the counter, opening a bottle of champagne. She caught her breath at how handsome he looked in his borrowed dark blue suit that clung to his wide shoulders and contrasted beautifully with his snowy white shirt and patterned tie. She was about to say something when she suddenly remembered that she'd seen him dressed up once before—only in his own clothes—and she felt a sharp pang of sorrow for what he'd lost. That other time, she'd seen him on television during the Academy Awards ceremony, once when he presented an Oscar and then again when he strode up onto the stage to accept his own Oscar for Best Actor. He'd been wearing a black tuxedo that night with a white pleated shirt and black bow tie, and she remembered thinking how gorgeously, elegantly male he was, so tall and sophisticated. She couldn't recall what he'd said in his acceptance speech, but she remembered that it had been brief and very witty, because the entire audience had exploded with laughter and kept on laughing while he walked off stage.
The fact that he was now relegated to hiding like a hunted animal and wearing borrowed clothes made her feel like crying.
Even while she thought it, she realized that he never complained and he wouldn't welcome either her sympathy or her pity. Since this was supposed to be a festive, lighthearted evening, Julie resolved to make certain it was. Feeling a little shy and self-conscious, she shoved her hands into the pockets concealed in the side seams of her dress and stepped forward. "Hi," she said with a bright smile.
Zack looked up, his eyes riveting on her, and the champagne he was pouring began to spill over the side of the glass. "My God," he said in an awed, husky whisper, his gaze moving slowly down her face and hair and body. "How could you possibly be jealous of Glenn Close?"
Not until that moment did Julie realize that was exactly why she'd wanted to dress up and put on makeup and fix her hair: She'd been trying to compete with the glamorous women he'd known on more even ground. "You're spilling the champagne," she said softly, so pleased she hardly knew how to behave.
He swore under his breath, jerked the bottle upright, and reached for a dish towel to mop it up.
"Zack?"
"What?" he said ruefully over his shoulder, picking up the glasses.
"How could you possibly have been jealous of Patrick Swayze?"
The glamour of his sudden white smile made it clear he was as pleased by her compliment as she was by his. "I honestly don't know," he joked.
* * *
"Which singers did you choose?" Julie teased after their candlelit dinner as he slid CDs into the player. "Because if you picked out Mickey Mouse, I'm not going to dance with you."
"Yes, you will."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You like dancing with me."
Despite the playful exchange, Julie was well aware that his mood had been disintegrating during their meal. Although he'd specifically asked her to treat the evening as a festive occasion, there was an indefinable tension and a grimness in his features that were becoming more pronounced as the evening wore on. She told herself it was their discussion of the murder that had caused his strange mood, because the only other explanation that came to her mind was that he was thinking about sending her away, and that she could not bear to consider. Despite her desire to stay with him, she knew perfectly well that the final decision was not going to be hers to make. And even though she was in love with him, she had no idea how he really felt about her, except that he very much liked having her around. Here.
Behind her on the stereo, Barbra Streisand's voice lifted effortlessly into the first bars of an intensely romantic song, and Julie tried again to shake off her foreboding as Zack opened his arms to her. "That's definitely not Mickey Mouse's voice," he pointed out. "Will she do?"
Julie nodded, smiling with pleasure. "Streisand is my absolute favorite singer."
"Mine, too." Zack slid his arm around her waist, moving her closer to him.
"If I had a voice like hers," Julie said, talking to keep her worries at bay, "I'd sing just to hear myself. I'd sing when I answered the door and used the telephone."
"She's phenomenal," Zack agreed. "Operatic sopranos are a dime a dozen, but Barbra is … unique, incomparable."
Julie suddenly realized his hand was roving slowly up her bare back; she saw the banked fires in his eyes kindling slowly into flame, and deep within her, she felt the answering stirrings of longing begin again—a longing for the tormenting sweetness of his touch, for the stormy insistence of his kiss, and the shattering joy of his body possessing hers. How thrilling it was to know she was going to have all that before the night ended and to be able to savor and prolong the moment, just as she sensed Zack also wanted to do. But was she going to have all this tomorrow night and the night after, she wondered, struggling to hold down her panic over what her intuition was telling her was behind his somber mood. "Did you know her?" she asked.
A second foray into the closet yielded a pair of matching blue ballet slippers that were a half size too large, but perfectly comfortable. Satisfied that she'd done the absolute best she could with what she had to work with, she fluffed her hair and took a last glance in the mirror. She'd spent more time getting ready for her "date" tonight than she had for her role as a bridesmaid in Carl and Sara's wedding, but it was time well spent, she decided. The cosmetics with the foreign names that she'd used tonight were much different than the inexpensive ones she'd bought in the drug store in Keaton and then discarded—these were far softer and more subtle. The muted eye shadow and mascara flattered her eves, even though it looked strange to her, and the touch of blush at her cheeks made her cheekbones seem higher and more prominent, but it was the prospect of seeing Zack and spending a lighthearted evening with him that made her eyes sparkle and her skin glow. All in all, she decided, she'd never looked nearly as nice as this. Leaning forward, she applied some of her own lipstick, then she stepped back, smiled at her reflection, and headed for the bedroom door. She'd find out the address here, she decided, and send a check to cover the cosmetics she'd used and the cost of dry cleaning the clothes she'd borrowed.
The candles were already lit on the coffee table when she walked into the living room, the fire was burning brightly on the grate, and Zack was standing at the counter, opening a bottle of champagne. She caught her breath at how handsome he looked in his borrowed dark blue suit that clung to his wide shoulders and contrasted beautifully with his snowy white shirt and patterned tie. She was about to say something when she suddenly remembered that she'd seen him dressed up once before—only in his own clothes—and she felt a sharp pang of sorrow for what he'd lost. That other time, she'd seen him on television during the Academy Awards ceremony, once when he presented an Oscar and then again when he strode up onto the stage to accept his own Oscar for Best Actor. He'd been wearing a black tuxedo that night with a white pleated shirt and black bow tie, and she remembered thinking how gorgeously, elegantly male he was, so tall and sophisticated. She couldn't recall what he'd said in his acceptance speech, but she remembered that it had been brief and very witty, because the entire audience had exploded with laughter and kept on laughing while he walked off stage.
The fact that he was now relegated to hiding like a hunted animal and wearing borrowed clothes made her feel like crying.
Even while she thought it, she realized that he never complained and he wouldn't welcome either her sympathy or her pity. Since this was supposed to be a festive, lighthearted evening, Julie resolved to make certain it was. Feeling a little shy and self-conscious, she shoved her hands into the pockets concealed in the side seams of her dress and stepped forward. "Hi," she said with a bright smile.
Zack looked up, his eyes riveting on her, and the champagne he was pouring began to spill over the side of the glass. "My God," he said in an awed, husky whisper, his gaze moving slowly down her face and hair and body. "How could you possibly be jealous of Glenn Close?"
Not until that moment did Julie realize that was exactly why she'd wanted to dress up and put on makeup and fix her hair: She'd been trying to compete with the glamorous women he'd known on more even ground. "You're spilling the champagne," she said softly, so pleased she hardly knew how to behave.
He swore under his breath, jerked the bottle upright, and reached for a dish towel to mop it up.
"Zack?"
"What?" he said ruefully over his shoulder, picking up the glasses.
"How could you possibly have been jealous of Patrick Swayze?"
The glamour of his sudden white smile made it clear he was as pleased by her compliment as she was by his. "I honestly don't know," he joked.
* * *
"Which singers did you choose?" Julie teased after their candlelit dinner as he slid CDs into the player. "Because if you picked out Mickey Mouse, I'm not going to dance with you."
"Yes, you will."
"What makes you so sure?"
"You like dancing with me."
Despite the playful exchange, Julie was well aware that his mood had been disintegrating during their meal. Although he'd specifically asked her to treat the evening as a festive occasion, there was an indefinable tension and a grimness in his features that were becoming more pronounced as the evening wore on. She told herself it was their discussion of the murder that had caused his strange mood, because the only other explanation that came to her mind was that he was thinking about sending her away, and that she could not bear to consider. Despite her desire to stay with him, she knew perfectly well that the final decision was not going to be hers to make. And even though she was in love with him, she had no idea how he really felt about her, except that he very much liked having her around. Here.
Behind her on the stereo, Barbra Streisand's voice lifted effortlessly into the first bars of an intensely romantic song, and Julie tried again to shake off her foreboding as Zack opened his arms to her. "That's definitely not Mickey Mouse's voice," he pointed out. "Will she do?"
Julie nodded, smiling with pleasure. "Streisand is my absolute favorite singer."
"Mine, too." Zack slid his arm around her waist, moving her closer to him.
"If I had a voice like hers," Julie said, talking to keep her worries at bay, "I'd sing just to hear myself. I'd sing when I answered the door and used the telephone."
"She's phenomenal," Zack agreed. "Operatic sopranos are a dime a dozen, but Barbra is … unique, incomparable."
Julie suddenly realized his hand was roving slowly up her bare back; she saw the banked fires in his eyes kindling slowly into flame, and deep within her, she felt the answering stirrings of longing begin again—a longing for the tormenting sweetness of his touch, for the stormy insistence of his kiss, and the shattering joy of his body possessing hers. How thrilling it was to know she was going to have all that before the night ended and to be able to savor and prolong the moment, just as she sensed Zack also wanted to do. But was she going to have all this tomorrow night and the night after, she wondered, struggling to hold down her panic over what her intuition was telling her was behind his somber mood. "Did you know her?" she asked.
