Love, Come to Me(52)

Sally Hudson, usually so bubbly and friendly, dared not come near the acid-tongued matrons for fear of being ridiculed by them. Lucy glanced at Sally across the room occasionally, trying to ignore the guilt that the pretty blonde’s uncertain smile caused. They had once been such dear friends. They had once told each other everything, laughed about boys and parents, talked about dress patterns and candy recipes, cried for each other’s heartaches. Now Lucy felt that they didn’t know each other at all. I’ve changed too much for us to be friends ever again, she thought sadly, knowing that even if she and Sally made peace with each other, they would have nothing to talk about. Lucy had too much pride to confess to anyone that her relationship with Heath was practically nonexistent and that her marriage was a sham. Neither did she want to hear about Sally’s problems, which were so little and insignificant that they made her own look that much more appalling.

Fidgeting absentmindedly, Lucy traced the black jet beads that glittered along the box-plaited ruffle of her rich blue evening dress. It was one of the most daring dresses she had ever worn, cut so deeply at the neck that her br**sts appeared to be spilling out of the basque. She had worn it with the intention of attracting as much attention as possible, and she was aware of many men’s eyes on her. Only one man in the room was not staring at her. He was looking at Sally, whose golden prettiness was accentuated by demure pink and white ruffles. Daniel, who looked much younger than she had remembered him, handsome, proper, starched and combed, and sitting up straight in his seat, staring at Sally as if . . . as if . . .

He had once looked at Lucy that way.

Noticing Lucy’s sudden intake of breath, Betta Hampton leaned closer and followed the direction of her eyes. “Why do you keep looking back and forth between that puppy-eyed Daniel Collier and that blond twit?” she whispered.

“I think there’s something between them,” Lucy said stiffly, fixing her eyes on the musicians at the front of the room.

“Oh.” Shrugging disinterestedly, Betta leaned the other way and began to talk to her husband.

Lucy, who had no husband there to talk to, heard not one note of music all through the rest of the evening as she sat and wondered. As the performance concluded and all agreed with pleasure that it had been a resounding success, wine was served and several toasts were made to the Thursday Circle. Lucy nodded and smiled with the others as the club was thanked repeatedly for sponsoring such a delightful evening. Before the crowd began to disperse, Mr. Hudson, Sally’s father, stood in front of them all with a glass of wine and a red, beaming face. Somehow knowing what would come next, Lucy stared disbelievingly at Sally, who had blushed and modestly turned her face downward.

“My friends,” Mr. Hudson said, gesturing expansively with his free hand, “I am certain that a more appropriate occasion could have been found for this announcement to be made . . . among a quieter and more private gathering, perhaps, as is the Concord way. After all, we know how to do things just as well as those cold-roast Bostonians.” The crowd chuckled as a whole, while a few Concordians laughed outright. Mr. Hudson set his glass down and held out a hand to Sally, who went up to the front of the room to join him. “However, the joy of my family, and most especially my Sally, is something we feel should be shared with everyone here tonight. I wish to announce the engagement of my daughter to a fine young man from one of the most respected families in Concord—a young man whose intelligence and responsibility have impressed me many times over—Daniel Collier. To Daniel and Sally.”

“To Daniel and Sally!” Everyone took up the cry and lifted their glasses in a toast.

Daniel and Sally.

I don’t believe it, Lucy thought as the dry, acrid wine passed over her lips and trickled down her throat. I’ll wake up any minute now, and be Lucy Caldwell again, and Daniel will still be mine, and Heath Rayne will never have come to town . . . Emerson’s house will still be standing . . . I’ll be in my own little bed at home and hear Father shuffling around in his room . . . She felt people staring at her, and their curious gazes caused cold, hard sense to enter her mind again. She would never be Lucy Caldwell again. She was Lucy Rayne. She paused in the act of sipping more wine, her eyes meeting with Sally’s soft, doelike gaze. The first few rays of adult understanding burned inside her head as she thought, It’s not your fault, Sally. I lost him because of the things I did. I can’t blame you for anything. Her hand trembled slightly and her fingers clenched around the stem of the glass as she raised the wine to Sally in a private toast and smiled at her. Sally’s eyes suddenly glistened with tears of gladness as she smiled back.

A prickle ran down the back of Lucy’s neck. Her eyes flew to the doorway at the side of the room. Heath stood there, having arrived a few minutes early to pick her up and take her home. His legs were crossed negligently as he leaned against the doorjamb. Someone had given him a glass of wine, which was held carelessly between his long fingers. His mouth quirked in an ironic half-smile.

And he raised his glass to her.

It could have been a compliment. Or the most sarcastic gesture anyone had ever made to her. Lucy didn’t know which. She stared at her husband in confusion, his name poised on her lips. His eyes slid down the slender line of her throat to the pale, generous curves of her bosom, lingered there boldly and traveled back up to her face. His stare was so warm and thorough that she flushed as if he had touched her intimately in public, and he kept on looking at her even while he drank from the delicate wineglass. Her heart raced wildly as an electric current of awareness raced over her skin.