Breathless(7)

Portia searched through her armoire for a suitable gown to wear to the evening’s anniversary celebration. There’d be a large buffet, music, and drinks, and she’d be expected to wear something more stylish than her usual serviceable skirt and blouse. She took down the emerald green dress she’d gotten in San Francisco last year but thought the neckline might be too bold. Growing up in Denver her clothing had been hand-me-downs from churches and local benevolent societies and they’d always been threadbare, too large, or too small. That she would one day own more dresses than her arms could hold and shoes to match hadn’t even been a dream in those days because it would have been too far-fetched. She paused, remembering the summer they’d received no donations and she and Regan were forced to wear the stitched together flour sacks their mother, Corinne, had somehow managed to obtain. They’d been barefoot that entire summer as well. Wondering if she’d ever rid herself of those tragic years, she pushed aside the haunting memories and refocused her attention on the emerald gown.

“You should wear that,” Regan said behind her.

“No, I don’t think so.” She hung it back up in the armoire.

“Why not?” she asked, coming in and closing the door that connected their rooms. “You’d look beautiful.”

“It’s more suitable for the opera, not a dinner.”

“How about that rose-colored one?”

Portia took it down and considered it. It was a lovely gown. The neckline was modest, the bodice fitted, and there were small satin roses of a darker hue along the hem of the flowing skirt. The short wispy cap sleeves would leave most of her arms bare but that wouldn’t be bothersome.

“Have you heard that Kent Randolph is here?” Regan asked, pausing to check her lip paint and hair in the mirror of Portia’s vanity table. “One of the maids brought him a tray earlier and said he’s incredibly handsome.”

“I was with him earlier,” she replied, doing her best not to remember her reaction to his warm voice. “He was in need of a shave.”

“Did he say what he’d been doing all this time?”

“No.” And she told herself she wasn’t interested, even though a small part of her was curious.

“Did he mention how long he’d be staying?”

“No, but you can quiz him as much as you care to when you see him.” It never occurred to her that he might be staying. If he did, she hoped it would only be for a short time. She didn’t want to have to spend her days battling her reactions to those male eyes of his, but then again, maybe she’d build up an immunity to them, the way children built up an immunity to the pox.

“He’s in one of the guest rooms down the hall.”

Portia almost dropped the gown. That close! Recovering, she replied as disinterestedly as she could manage, “I had no idea.”

Regan shrugged and took one last primping look in the mirror. “I suppose because he’s family of sorts. Are you choosing that gown or not?”

“No.” She put it back and took down one that was dove gray and had a high neck trimmed in lace. Something inside her deemed the gown safer.

“That one’s lovely, too, but not as nice as the other.”

“One of Uncle Rhine’s associates may have a business question and I want their eyes on my face, not my neckline.”

“You really aren’t any fun, sister,” Regan replied, smiling.

“You have enough fun for the both of us.”

“I wish that were true.”

Portia chuckled. “We need to find you a husband. Maybe you should answer one of those mail-order-bride advertisements in the newspapers.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

Portia was appalled that her sister appeared to be mulling it over. “I was just pulling your leg, Regan. I wasn’t serious.”

“But just think, somewhere there might be a man who needs a wife to help him work his homestead and have his children. He’d be strapping, strong, and handsome. We’d fall madly in love. It would be an adventure and you know how much I crave adventure.”

Portia walked over and placed her palm against Regan’s forehead. “I think you’re coming down with something. You may need to see Doc Finney.”

Regan laughed and moved the hand away. “That would be something, wouldn’t it?”

“What, your coming down with a brain fever?”

“No, silly. My becoming a mail-order bride.”

“As I said, it was a joke. Don’t even consider doing something so harebrained.”

“Women become mail-order brides all the time and besides, everyone thought my wanting to deliver the mail was harebrained, too.”

“Some of us still do.” Portia sat on the vanity’s purple tufted bench and pulled on her stockings then anchored them with the frilly green garters Regan had talked her into buying last fall.

“Delivering the mail is another form of adventure. I enjoy getting to see new places and people.”

The sisters were very different in that respect. Portia was content to sit at her desk, poring over ledgers and contracts while Regan always wanted to see what was over the next hill. “I don’t like the idea of your being robbed or losing a wheel or being attacked by a puma or a bear, or Apaches. You’re a pest sometimes but you’re my pest and I love you.”